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CDElfRiaHT OEPOSOl 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



By MARY MacMILLAN 
SHORT PLAYS 

The Shadowed Star.— The Ring.— The Rose.— 
Luck. — Entr* Act. — A Woman's a Woman for 
A' That. — ^A Fan and Two Candlesticks. — A 
Modern Masque. — ^The Futurists. — The Gate 
of Wishes. 



MORE SHORT PLAYS 

His Second Girl. — At the Church Door. — 

Honey. — ^The Dress Rehearsal of Hamlet. — ^The 

Pioneers. — In Mendelesia, Part I. — In Mende- 

lesia, Part II. — The Dryad. 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

The Weak-End. — The Storm. — In Heaven. — 
When Two's Not Company.— Peter Donelly. — 
An Apocryphal Episode. — Standing Moving. 



A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 

(Published separately) 



THE LITTLE GOLDEN FOUNTAIN 
AND OTHER POEMS 



Third Book 

OF 

Short Plays 

V Bv 

MARYMACMILLAN 



STEWART a KtPD 




CINCINNATI 

STEWART KIDD COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 

STEWART KIDD COMPANY 







/l^t 



^c^-a<«> 



All rights reserved 



These plays are fully protected by copyright in the United States, 
Great Britain and Colonies, and countries of the Berne Conven- 
tion. No performance, either professional or amateur, may be 
given without the written permission of Mary MacMillan, who 
may be addressed in care of the publishers, Stewart Kidd Com- 
pany, Cincinnati, Ohio 



Printed in the United States of America 
The Caxton Press 



JAN 22 '23 

ClAe92973 



To 
Nancy Ely Henshaw 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Weak-End 9 

The Storm io8 

In Heaven 139 

When Two's Not Company 159 

Peter Donelly 181 

An Apocryphal Episode 215 

Standing Moving 236 



THE WEAK-END. 

A Farce in Three Acts. 

CHARACTERS AS THEY APPEAR. 

Ethel, an essentially calm and detached young 
woman ^ niece to Mrs. Winthrop. 

Jerry, a very excitable and sympathetic young man^ 
nephew to Mrs. Winthrop. 

Mrs. Winthrop, a slightly more than middle-aged 
widow with an actively romantic interest in the 
love afairs of youth. 

Gwendolyn, a guest, tall and willowy y but without 
will. 

Jim, a guest , the fat-tenor type of young man, with 
a rich cigarette cough and an aptitude for mis- 
fortune. 

Leander, a guest y also tall and willowy , but with- 
out will. 

Miss Gottschalk, rich, elderly, deaf, with little 
consideration for non-essentials, friend to Mrs. 
Winthrop. 

Miss Russell, whose interests are long in inten- 
tions, but short in vocabulary, secretary to Mrs. 
Winthrop. 

Ange, a guest, pretty, attractive, clever. 

Liz, a guest, plump, athletic, with a bull-terrier. 

Walter, a guest, a sensible young man. 

Alan, who is uninvited, a small young man with all 
the will anyone else may lack. 

Charlotte, who is also uninvited, the feminine 
prototype of Alan. 

9 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



[Scene: // is the summer of igjg, and the ac- 
tion takes place Friday^ Saturday^ and Sunday 
afternoon in one of those intensely hot spells that 
sometimes visit the Middle-West, The scene 
throughout is in the hallway of a country-house 
near Cincinnati. On the left side of the stage 
the front door opens to a wide verandah which^ 
one must imagine^ looks out upon a wooded lawn 
with sweeping driveway winding away among 
great forest trees. On the stage right the wide 
doorway to the drawing-room is curtained off. 
At the back of the stage are glass doors dividing 
the front from the rear hall, so that what goes on 
behind may be seen but not heard in front. The 
stairway to the second floor goes up at the right. 
There is a grandfather's clock of several genera- 
tions ago, a narrow, stif, straight sofa of the 
same straight age and a victrola of our more 
wastrel period. The old mahogany furniture and 
all the appointments indicate the good taste of 
the lady-of-the-house. There is the inevitable tel- 
ephone, but its stage use will be elevated to strictly 
long-distance distinction. There will be no meals 
served on the stage and no more smoking than the 
nervousness of the actors absolutely demands. 
There will be no butler superfluously polishing 
glass and no parlor maid cleansing the furniture 
with a feather duster. There will be no delinquent 
letter as co-respondent to the plot. Nor will there 
be letters discovered under the carpet to explain 
the situation, which will have to be gathered 
entirely from the actors themselves. When the 
curtain goes up Ethel is seen lounging on a rattan 

lO 



THE WEAK-END 



couch^ reading a book and sipping iced limeade. 
She is dressed in white and looks calm and cool^ 
as she always does. 'Jerry comes bolting in^ hot 
and fussy,] 

ACT I. 

Jerry. Oh, there you are! 

Ethel. Fm sorry my presence annoys you, 
but I can't very well help being sometimes where 
I live. 

Jerry. I didn't do a thing but remark that 
you are here. How you do jump a chap! Gosh, 
but it's hot! [Fanning himself.] 

Ethel [looking at him with dark disapproval]. 
That is one of the most disgusting words you use. 

Jerry. It's too hot to think of language. I'm 
too languid for langwidge. [Dropping into a 
chair.] 

Ethel [looking at him and quite all over him]. 
You seem hot. 

Jerry. Seem, madam, nay, am! Of course 
you are never disturbed by anything under the 
sun nor the sun himself, but I can tell you it's 
hotter than love in April. 

Ethel. How poetic. 

Jerry. It gets me how you can manage always 
to look so cool, Ethel. 

Ethel [always with the same calm], I make a 
business of it. You can't be cool unless you try 
to look and feel cool. 

Jerry. Can't you, though? Try it in January. 

Ethel. You are uneducated, Jerry. I am 

II 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

making practical use of my psychology and you 
don't understand. It's a pity you didn't go to 
college. 

Jerry. Then you wouldn't have any poor nut 
to try out your intelligence on. 

Ethel. Did you just come? 

Jerry. Just come? Sure. And hurried to 
you instantly. And this is the way you receive 
me. It will be jolly to take a swim later on. 

Ethel. I thought I heard your machine. 

Jerry. You can't fail to hear Lizzie. You 
ought to try your psychology on her. I've tried 
everything but an ax. 

Ethel. Did you come alone? 

Jerry. No, I brought Leander along with 
me. He's out at the pump washing up. The 
rest of the bunch will come in Walter's jitney. 

Ethel [sitting up]. But where is Mr. Lee? 

Jerry. Leander? I told you he's in the lav- 
atory laving his countenance of the dust of the 
Sahara typhoon Lizzie and the rest of her breed 
kicked up on the king's highway. Funny name, 
he has, isn't it ? Leander Lee. But it seems there's 
been a Leander in the family ever since the 
original one swam the Hellespont. He's a devil 
of an F. F. V., you know. 

Ethel. I suppose that is why your Virginia 
aunt is so keen about him. 

Jerry. My Virginia aunt? I guess your blue- 
blooded Boston Winthrop uncle married her. 
Boston is as nutty about blue-blood as Virginia. 

Ethel. That doesn't excite me particularly. 

12 



THE WEAK-END 



If I had to choose of course I should prefer Boston 
to Virginia, but I'm rather fed up on old blood. 

Mrs. Winthrop [making her entrance swim- 
mingly^ looking at them beamingly]. Here you two 
dear children are! Always together! 

Jerry. Together! About the way two tom- 
cats are together. 

Ethel. Jerry, it's enough for you to be so 
covered with perspiration without using such 
outrageously coarse language. [She takes her glass 
of limeade and goes\ 

Mrs. Winthrop. Why did Ethel go? 

Jerry. Lord, does anyone know why Ethel 
ever comes or goes? She and her limeade come 
and go when they list, like the wind. 

Mrs. Winthrop. She always comes where you 
are, dear. 

Jerry. Not if she knows it first. 

Mrs. Winthrop. She really is devoted to you, 
dear. 

Jerry. About as devoted to me as a ball 
rolling down a bowling alley is devoted to the 
ten pins. 

Mrs. Winthrop. She is tremendously fond of 
you, dear. You are a blind little boy not to see it. 

Jerry. By gum, if she shows it I must be 
blind! I reckon she went away just for the pure 
pleasure of meeting me again. Oh, she's damned 
crazy about me! 

Mrs. Winthrop. You are so profane, dear. 
And Ethel is so refined. But I suppose it makes 
you fascinating to her. It is so masculine. Did 
that delightful Mr. Lee come with you? 

13 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Jerry. Yes, he's washing up. I hauled him 
out in Lizzie. But why do you call him delightful. 
Aunt? He's just six-feet-five of Virginia straight- 
cut. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, I know he must be 
charming. His uncle was Ellery Lee, of Roanoke. 
Jerry, I feel certain already that it is going to be 
a most successful week-end house-party. There 
are sure to be several affairs. Wouldn't it be 
wonderful if several matches were made? 

Jerry. Aunt, you ought to have been a car- 
penter and joiner. 

Mrs. Winthrop. That dear girl who came 
out to Olive Morton's wedding is going to stay 
over and visit Ethel. They were dear friends at 
school, you know. I persuaded Ethel to invite 
her. 

Jerry. It must have been a touching attach- 
ment if you had to persuade Ethel to invite her. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, Ethel is not demon- 
strative in her affections. 

Jerry. I've noticed that. 

Mrs. Winthrop [with a naive expression as of 
'"There, there,'" "'Tut, tuf']. Oh, Jerry boy, you 
can't deceive me! I know deep down in your 
heart how fond you are of Ethel. 

Jerry. About as fond of her as a monkey is oi 
fleas. She's a nice girl and all that, of course, 
being your late husband's niece, but I give you 
my word. Aunt, if she didn't live here in the 
house with you, I'd seek her society about as 
hard as a toothless infant would suck a lemon. 
I've got no martyr's blood in me. 

14 



THE WEAK-END 



Mrs. Winthrop. Jerry, Jerry, I thoroughly 
understand lovers' quarrels. It is when two 
natures are complete opposites — like yours and 
Ethel's — that the strongest attraction occurs. 

Jerry [exploding]. By Jove, Aunt, you'd 
make a match between St. Paul and Queen Eliz- 
abeth. [An automobile horn is heard.] That may 
be St. Paul now. 

Mrs. Winthrop. It is somebody. 

Jerry [running to the window and looking out]. 
It's just part of them — Jim and the Robertson 
girl. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, that nice girl who came 
on to Olive Morton's wedding. [They both go out 
to meet the guests on the porch and almost imme- 
diately re-enter with them.] 

Mrs. Winthrop [leading in the girl ajffectionately 
by the hand]. I am so relieved that you are safely 
here. One never knows — with those romantic 
boys and their automobiles. They may suddenly 
decide to elope with a pretty girl. 

Jim [with his plumpness and his cigarette cough 
he gives the impression that he barely escaped death 
by whooping-cough or croup in infancy ^ only to go 
of with influenza later on]. What ideas you do 
put into a man's head, Mrs. Winthrop. 

Jerry. Where's the rest of the bunch? 

Jim. Walter thought we'd better come in two 
machines — we might not want to go back all at 
the same time. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Sly old Walter! He's think- 
ing of pairs. 

Jerry. Or peaches. 

IS 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Jim. They ought to be here by now. They 
started first. But if I don't happen to have an 
accident, I always beat Walter. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Gervaise, take James out to 
wash his hands. 

Jim. My hands are perfectly clean. I don't 
get all stewed up and dirty over a little drive. 
But Fve got to take some things out of my car. 

Jerry [as he goes out with Jim]. I'll put his 
duds in my room. 

Jim. I haven't got much but a collar. I don't 
go loaded down with impedimenta. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Fortunately we have plenty 
of room for everybody in this rambling old house 
of ours. This is my dear old home. Miss Robert- 
son, the house my husband built for me and to 
which I have retired in my loneliness. 

Gwendolyn. Oh, Mrs. Winthrop, it must be 
dreadful to have lost your husband. 

Mrs. Winthrop. You feel the importance of 
husbands, don't you, dear? [Smiling wanly.] We 
were great travelers, my husband and I, but since 
his death, I live quietly here. It is very lonely 
sometimes. [Sighing,] That is why I am so 
happy now to be surrounded by young people. 
I am all alone most of the time with just my sec- 
retary. And — oh, before it escapes me, I must 
tell you about my secretary. Miss Russell. I 
always have to warn people about her so they 
won't hurt her feelings. She was a school-girl 
friend of mine and her father lost all his money 
and I couldn't bear to have her go to the Widows' 
Home. 

i6 



THE WEAK-END 



Gwendolyn. Is she a widow, too? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, dear no, but they take 
in people who ought to be widows, too. I think 
every woman ought to be a widow — no, no, I 
don't mean that. I mean every woman ought to 
be married. Miss Russell has a strange little 
failing, she always gets the wrong word. It's a 
slight detriment in a secretary — I always have to 
re-write my business letters and of course I write 
my personal letters anyway. You mustn't notice 
her words — I wouldn't have her feelings hurt for 
the world. But I am very lonely! 

Gwendolyn. Oh, Mrs. Winthrop, how sad! 
But doesn't Ethel live with you? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, Ethel is very unselfish. 
She gives me all the time she can. When she 
isn't Red-Crossing or Y. W.-ing or going to col- 
lege alumnae meetings, she is here and brightens 
up the old house with her girlish presence. Ethel 
and Jerry have been sweethearts from childhood. 

Gwendolyn. How interesting! 

Mrs. Winthrop. Isn't it? [Smiling.] I can 
never quite decide whether it is lovelier to be 
sweethearts from childhood or later to meet your 
destined fate and fall in love at first sight. That 
is so very romantic. You have never met Mr. 
Lee, have you? 

Gwendolyn [innocently]. No. 

Mrs. Winthrop. He is a dear boyhood friend 
of Jerry's. They were at a preparatory school 
together, though I regret to say Gervaise never 
went to college. He is wonderfully clever, but 
he always permitted the other boys to write his 

2 ly 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

essays for him and do his translations — that and 
boyish pranks seemed to prejudice the professors 
against him. I have always regarded professors 
as a little narrow-minded. Gervaise is doing 
wonders now on the stock exchange. Business 
has brought Mr. Lee to our city and we must do 
our best to make him forget he is a stranger in a 
strange land. 

Gwendolyn. In a strange land? 

Mrs. Winthrop. My dear, don't whisper it — 
but every other place seems a little provincial 
and uncouth to a Virginian. So Tm going to 
make him feel as much at home as possible and I 
count on your help. 

Gwendolyn. But Fm a stranger, too. 

Mrs. Winthrop. That is exactly the reason 
you can do so much for him. [To Ethel^ who is 
re-entering.] Here is our girl, Ethel. 

Ethel [greeting Gwendolyn in a polite but all- 
in-the-day s-work manner]. So glad to see you. 
Have a nice ride? 

Gwendolyn. Oh, yes, we came spinning. 

Ethel. You always do with Jimmie. Didn't 
lose a wheel or anything? 

Gwendolyn. Oh, no. 

Ethel. You were lucky. It's probably the 
only time in his life he didn't have an accident. 
He usually runs into another car or a tree or some- 
thing. Jimmie is the unfortunate sort. 

Jerry [re-entering]. I left Jim out there work- 
ing with his Lizzie. He thinks he's discovered 
something the matter with her, and if there isn't 
now there will be by the time he gets through. 

i8 



THE WEAK-END 



Mrs. Winthrop. Gervaise, where do you sup- 
pose Mr. Lee is? He has been so long. 

Jerry. He was washing up. But Jove, he's 
had time to swim the Hellespont again. I'll go 
see if he's drowned. [He goes.] 

Mrs. Winthrop. I must tell Miss Gottschalk 
you have come. She will be so glad. [She goes.] 

Gwendolyn. It is awfully good of you to 
stay with your aunt. She seems very lonely. 

Ethel. Don't let dear Aunt work on your 
feelings more than you can help. She was very 
fond of Uncle, of course, but she's never lone- 
some. She gets too much pleasure out of man- 
aging people ever to be bored. 

Jerry [darting in again]. How do you do.^ 
[To Gwendolyn.] I hardly had time to speak to 
you before. He's changing his shirt. He'll be 
here in a minute. 

Ethel [continuing]. Aunt always has a lot of 
people about her. She always has a lot of my 
friends or Jerry's or her own. And she has her 
secretary, Miss Russell. 

Jerry. Called Russell because she rustles so. 
Also called more intimately Clara. It's her 
tongue that rustles continuously like autumn 
leaves. She has a little discrepancy of the 
tongue. In fact you have to make a par- 
aphrase mentally of everything she says — to 
Clarafy it, as it were — you might call it a Clara- 
phrase. 

Ethel. And there's Miss Gottschalk. 

Jerry. Miss Gottschalk, like the poor, is 
always with us. Oh, they're a triumvirate, be- 

19 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

lieve me, Aunt and Miss Gottschalk and Miss 
Russell. They're always together. They travel 
together, as every porter on the trains between 
here and New York knows. They take all the 
comforts of home with them. Miss Gottschalk 
is the female Rockefeller of our humble burg and 
I'm doing my best to win her young affections, 
but she's coy. 

Gwendolyn. How interesting! 

Ethel. Oh, Miss Gottschalk is a very old 
friend who practically lives with Aunt. 

Jerry. Practically for Aunt but very imprac- 
tically for Hermione — Miss Gottschalk's baptis- 
mal name is Hermione. Aunt does her out of her 
limousine and her bridge winnings and works her 
for trips to Atlantic City and God knows what. 

Ethel. No one could do Miss Gottschalk out 
of her bridge winnings — you know that. You 
give a false impression of Aunt. She is the most 
generous and harmless person in the world. 

Jerry. She means to be, but take it from me, 
nobody is harmless who plans. 

Ethel. Absurd. 

Jerry. I say, no one is harmless who plans. 
It's only Providence who can cope with such a 
person. 

Ethel. Miss Gottschalk doesn't seem to 
suffer from her. 

Jerry. Hermione has gobs of Government 
bonds, is stone deaf, is a shark at bridge, and 
nobody knows what she thinks except when she 
is asleep, which she is at stated intervals. 

Mrs. Winthrop [re-entering]. Miss Gottschalk 

20 



THE WEAK-END 



has just wakened. She has been taking her Httle 
afternoon nap. She is delighted to know you are 
here. 

Jerry [as Leander enters]. This is Leander, 
Aunt. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, Mr. Lee, you have made 
me so happy by your coming. This is our Ethel 
and this is Miss Robertson, Ethel's friend. 

[There are greetings and Miss Gotts chalk enters. 
She is considerably beyond middle-age not to 
say quite elderly, a heavy person in weight, 
wisdom, and wealth, wears glasses, and has the 
look of abstracted observation common to the 
deaf, Mrs. Winthrop turns to her and leads 
her forward by the hand.] 

Mrs. Winthrop. My dear, this is Mr. Lee, 
Jerry's friend, and this is Miss Robertson, Ethel's 
bosom friend. 

Miss GoTTSCHALK. How do you do, young 
people? [She greets them in a friendly manner 
which, however, leaves no room for doubt that their 
existence is of no essential importance to her. She 
takes herself and the book she is carrying to a sofa 
and lies down and reads \ 

Mrs. Winthrop. We are really a homogeneous 
little party ourselves — aren't we? Even if the 
others didn't come. 

Gwendolyn. You have a perfectly lovely 
place, Mrs. Winthrop. 

Lee. It is almost like a Virginia estate. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, you dear boy! 

21 



THIRD BOOK OFSHORTPLAYS 

Gwendolyn. Or like a country place near 
Chicago. 

Jerry. Except that we are not flat here. 

Ethel. Sometimes some of us are quite flat. 

Jerry. But never flatter! Do you swim. Miss 
Robertson ^ 

Gwendolyn. I adore swimming. 

Jerry. Bully! The best part of Aunt's grounds 
is the river. It's right out there not a stone's 
throw away. It's not over your head — you can 
wade across it — but there is one deep hole you 
can dive into. Aunt has been an old sport and 
built bath-houses for us on the bank, or, if you 
prefer, you can use your own room in the house 
and run down, it's so near. Come on, let's have 
a swim now and not wait for the rest of the 
bunch. 

Mrs. Winthrop. No, I am going to take these 
two out to see my view. Jerry and Ethel prob- 
ably have something they want to do together. 
[She takes Leander and Gwendolyn by the arms and 
walks them out. Jerry and Ethel are left. They 
look at each other with anything but agreeable ex- 
pressions. Jerry sticks his tongue out at Ethel.\ 

Ethel. I do wish for Aunt's sake you would 
try occasionally to behave yourself like a grown- 
up man. 

Jerry. You're almost too sweet, Ethel. Go 
get yourself another limeade, you need more acid 
in your system. [They turn away from each other 
and go out in different directions y Jerry to the porch, 
Ethel to the drawing-room. Miss Gottschalk, who 
has paid no attention to them, goes on reading. 

22 



THE WEAK-END 



Jim enters^ looks about and sees nobody but Miss 
Gottschalk.] 

Jim. Well, that beats the Dutch! Whereas 
everybody gone? [Miss Gottschalk^ not hearing 
him, merely glances in his direction and goes on 
reading^ Did they leave you all alone, Miss 
Gottschalk? I call that low of them. \Miss 
Gottschalk does not hear him and pays no attention 
to him.] Just like them to go off gallivanting and 
have a jolly good time and leave us all the work 
to do and get along the best way we can. My, 
but that little car of mine is a bird. I can't quite 
make out what is the matter with her now. It's 
a good thing she didn't stall on the road out. 
Your chauffeur tells me he prefers a Stevens- 
Duryea, though he's driven all kinds of other cars 
for you that he likes. He likes a Cadillac, too, 
and a Win ton-Six, and he has no objections to a 
Marmon or a Haines or a Hudson. He says he 
knows a man who prefers a Maxwell and another 
who won't work for people who don't own a 
Pierce-Arrow, and another who drives only Coles. 
He says a friend of his will pass any man on the 
road with a Chandler, though this same man 
will drive a Roamer or a Paige or even a Saxon. 
And another fellow swears by his Packard, though 
he will drive a Locomobile if he has to. And an- 
other chap wants only a Premier, while another 
one he knows likes a Lafayette, and an older 
driver wants an Elgin, while a kid friend of his 
likes a Stutz. Well, I guess it's a good deal a 
matter of taste, as the old lady said when she 
kissed her cow. When I get to be a millionaire 

23 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Vm going to buy me a Buick. But I don't want 
you to misunderstand me — Fm not going back 
on my little Lizzie. She suits me all right. I say 
httle, but she's really not so little. I guess at a 
pinch I could squeeze at least seven people into 
her and even then hum up the hills just the same. 
Which is your favorite car, Miss Gottschalk? 
Your man tells me you have had at least twenty- 
six different makes since he has been driving for 
you. I say, which is your favorite car? 

Miss Gottschalk [apparently not having heard 
a word — looks up]. James Doolittle, it is a great 
pity that a young man of your vast information 
should talk so little. [She reads again.] 

Jim. I just thought as you had had so many 
cars you might give me some advice. I was just 
coming round to that. There's something the 
matter with my Lizzie. She won't go. If it was 
winter I'd think she was cold, but she is boihng. 
I thought she might be too hot, so I poured a 
pitcher of ice water into her. Maybe you could 
suggest something. [She looks at him.] I say 
[raising his voice], maybe you could suggest some- 
thing — maybe you could give me some advice 
about my Lizzie. 

Miss Gottschalk. No, no. Not I — never. 
I never mix up in young men's love affairs. It's 
a thankless task. I leave all that to Mrs. Win- 
throp. 

Jim [shaking his head]. You don't understand. 

Miss Gottschalk. Probably not. Girls never 
do understand. I should be surprised if she did 

24 



THE WEAK-END 



understand. Girls are a brainless lot. Don't ever 
expect any sense from any of them. 

Jim {shaking his head and frowning. No, no, 
no. She isn't a girl. I say you don't understand 
me. 

Miss GoTTSCHALK. Nonsense, James Doolittle! 
Don't you try to flirt with me! 

Jim. Oh, my Lord! 

Miss GoTTSCHALK. I've had young men try 
to play that little game before. They'll do any- 
thing, commit any crime to marry money rather 
than work. It's a mistake. Poverty is a young 
man's greatest blessing — keeps 'em from vice. 
I say, James Doolittle, poverty is your greatest 
blessing. I'm ashamed of you. Don't you try 
to flirt with me. 

Jim. Oh, my soul! \He turns and hurries outy 
stumbling into Miss Russell, who is coming in.] 

Miss Russell. Oh, my goodness, Mr. Doo- 
little, you are so big! You quite knock the breath 
out of a frail little butterfly like me. [He gives 
her a terrified glance and rushes on out.] Have you 
seen Mrs. Winthrop.^ [Shouting to Miss Gott- 
schalk.] 

Miss GoTTSCHALK. I'vc sccn nothing but 
young creatures. They make me nervous with 
their excessive vitality. They are always jump- 
ing and running and bustling about. If I had my 
way I should never have anyone in the house 
under fifty. 

Miss Russell. I have so many letters to 
write and if I don't get through it will be a per- 
fect category! She wants me to write to New 

25 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

York for a lot of new underwear, and I have com- 
pletely forgotten what style of brazier she decided 
on. [She hurries on out and in a moment Jerry 
comes in from the back hall and Ethel from the 
drawing-room.] 

Jerry. Well, she's fixed it already. 

Ethel. What? 

Jerry. Leander and your bosom friend. 

Ethel. You know she is not an intimate friend 
of mine at all. We have never corresponded and 
I didn't know her well at college. I haven't 
heard of her for a year and really don't know a 
thing about her. It was Aunt wanted to have 
her out here, not I. 

Jerry. I get you. You want to deny all re- 
sponsibility. 

Ethel. I do. 

Jerry. Well, by Jinks, no more do I know Lee. 

Ethel. Miss Russell is more responsible for 
inviting her than I am. She wrote the note ask- 
ing her for the week-end. And she spelled it 
w-e-a-k, too. 

Jerry. It's longer ago since I saw Lee. We 
played football together at school, and a bum 
player he was, too. That's the very last thing I 
know about him. Of course he's all right, and all 
that, but he's Aunt's guest and not mine. I want 
that understood. I'm not going to be responsible 
for him — I'm not. 

Ethel. Well? 

Jerry. Well, Aunt's going to make a match 
between them. 

Ethel. Oh! 

26 



THE WEAK-END 



Jerry. She says they're just cut out for each 
other, that she never saw two people so exactly 
suited, so evidently intended by Providence for 
each other. All right, let her go ahead and work 
on 'em, maybe it will divert her from you and me 
for a while. 

Ethel. I devoutly hope so. 

Jerry. There comes your chum. I don't feel 
that I want to face her with this dark red secret 
on my chest. 

Ethel. I'm sure I don't know what to talk to 
her about. 

Jerry. Leave her for a tete-a-tete with Her- 
mione. You'd better go get yourself another 
limeade — you'll need it to give you strength. 
[He disappears out through the back-hall and Ethel 
follows him. Gwendolyn enters from the porch, 
looks about, watches Miss Gottschalk the immovable, 
then goes to the telephone and takes down the re- 
ceiver.] 

Gwendolyn [telephoning]. Please give me 
Long Distance. Is this Long Distance? Will you 
please give me Mr. Alan Davis, the Central 
Trust — what? Oh, must I wait? — Chicago. — 
Please hurry, then. — Yes, this is Torrence Hill, 
1409. — Oh, please hurry, please do! [She hangs 
up the receiver and goes away, wanders about a 
little, seems fidgetty, goes to the door and looks out. 
In a moment the telephone bell rings and she rushes 
to it and picks up the receiver^ Am I Mrs. Win- 
throp? Of course not, what would she want with 
— Call her to the telephone to O. K. it? Oh, per- 
fectly impossible! — What? — Oh, she has O. K.d 

27 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

all Long Distance calls, only you have to put down 
the name of the person charging it. AH right, 
this is Miss Robertson. But you won't put down 
the name of the person Tm telephoning to, will 
you? Of course I don't want it known. — Mr. 
Alan Davis, Central Trust Building, Chicago. 
Oh, please hurry, please do! [She hangs up the 
receiver again and walks to and fro nervously. In 
a moment the bell rings again and she rushes back 
to the telephone.] Yes. Yes. Oh, yes. Is that 
you, darling? Alan, it's Gwen. Yes. I'm out 
here at Mrs. Winthrop's country place where I 
told you I was coming and I'm all alone in this 
hall and I just couldn't resist the temptation of 
calling you up. I'm all alone except for a stone- 
deaf old woman — she doesn't hear a thing I am 
saying. The others are all out somewhere. 
Some one may come in any minute, so I can't 
talk long. — Oh, yes, seven or eight — it's a week- 
end party, you know. — Tell them I'm engaged to 
you? Certainly not — that is my own private 
affair, too dear and sacred to share with strangers. 
— Men? Of course there are men. — What? — Oh, 
they're all paired off, in love with each other, ac- 
cording to Mrs. Winthrop. — Oh, you foolish boy! 
There never has been anyone else in the whole 
world since I have known you. — Oh, I know it is 
expensive calling up over the Long Distance 
[smiling] — specially as I am going to marry a 
laddie of Scotch ancestry — and I'll have to make 
Mrs. Winthrop let me pay her for it. I won't do 
it again — I'm going to be very economical and 
save money — but I had to just this once. I had 

28 



THE WEAK-END 



this wonderful opportunity all by myself and I 
wanted so to hear your dear voice. — I wanted to 
make sure you still love me — do you? — [Smiling 
ecstatically.] Oh, you dear rascal! — There comes 
somebody! — No, I won't do it again. Goodbye, 
darhng. — What? — The other men? Why, of 
course, dear, I've got to be nice to them. — One of 
them is a stranger — I have to be polite to him. — 
Oh ! [Smiling as though she had heard something 
particularly tender \ There, goodbye, sweetheart! 
\She hangs up the receiver just as Leander comes in.] 

Leander. Oh, you were using the telephone. 

Gwendolyn. Did you want to? 

Lee. Oh, no, not at all. 

Gwendolyn. I was just going. 

Lee. Oh, don't let me drive you away. I 
don't need to telephone at all. It was only a 
little business I forgot to attend to in town. 

Gwendolyn. I was going, anyway. I — I had 
forgotten my — my toothbrush and had to tel- 
ephone for one. Now don't let me interrupt you. 
I must take some things out of my suit-case to 
keep them from mussing. [She goes and he 
wanders nervously about^ looks anxiously at Miss 
Gottschalk, who calmly reads on, paying no atten- 
tion to him. Finally he goes to the telephone.] 

Lee. Give me Long Distance, please. — Give 
me Miss Sallie Carter — what? — Oh, my name? 
What difference does it make.^ — Well, if you must 
know, Leander Lee. — I want Miss Sallie Carter, 
the Washington, Roanoke, Virginia. — This is 
Torrence Hill 1409. — Please be quick about it — 
it's important business and my time is limited. 

29 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

[He hangs up the receiver and wanders about 
nervously with his hands in his pockets^ goes to the 
door and looks out. The bell rings in a moment 
and he hurries over and takes up the receiver.] 
Hello! — Hello, sweetheart! Yes, this is Lee. — I 
am out here at Mrs. Winthrop's country house, 
where I told you I was coming. — The bunch is 
scattered and I am all alone in this hall, with 
nobody but a stone-deaf old woman who doesn't 
hear a word I say. So I couldn't resist the tempta- 
tion of calHng you up.^ — Say, honey, I was just 
crazy to hear your sweet voice. — Oh, it's a week- 
end party. — About eight. — Are there girls? Sure, 
there are girls, but I never see anybody since I 
fell in love with you. You are the onliest lil' girl 
for me. — Why, darlin', I wear your locket round 
my neck all the time. — Tell them we are engaged? 
No, of course not. Maybe girls go around telling 
that sort of thing, but a man can't. Oh, I know 
it's expensive calling up over the Long Distance 
' — I know you want me to save all my spare cash 
now — and I'll have to pay Mrs. Winthrop. Say, 
honey, I forgot for a moment your grandmother 
was Scotch! — Oh, well, all right — I know you are 
right — you always are! — I won't do it again, 
honey, believe me, but I just had to this one 
chance — I may never have another after they all 
get here. — I just had to hear your sweet voice 
tell me you are my little girl still? — And am I 
your great big boy? [Smiles ecstatically.] Oh, 
say! — Don't I write you every day? Darlin'! 
Oh, this crowd are all sweet on each other, so 
Mrs. Winthrop tells me. 

30 



THE WEAK -END 



Miss Gottschalk [getting up]. This couch is 
very uncomfortable. I shall try to find something 
softer. I dare say, young man, you find every- 
thing soft. The young do. I suppose you are so 
soft yourself. But remember, young man, as 
you make your bed so you will have to lie on it. 
[She goes.] 

Lee. I wonder what she meant by that? — 
Oh, it was only this stone-deaf old woman made a 
remark about — nothing at all. — Oh, I couldn't, 
sweetheart. — You are my onliest little honey- 
bunch. — Why, dearie, IVe got to be polite to 
these girls. One of them's a stranger — I've got 
to sort of show her a good time. There comes 
somebody, I must hang up. Goodbye, honey, 
sweetheart! [He is nervously hanging up the re- 
ceiver and in looking rounds drops it^ jumps to 
replace /V, ejaculates ''OhY'] 

Miss Russell [entering fussily y as always]. 
Oh, Mr. Lee! — I'm sure it is Mr. Lee, because of 
Mrs. Winthrop's description of you. She said 
you are an ApoUyon and you are — a perfect 
ApoUyon ! 

Lee [smiling rather constrainedly]. You are — I 
am afraid — cruelly witty. 

Miss Russell. Flatterer! I am Miss Russell, 
Mrs. Winthrop's friend. I am afraid I frightened 
you. Fm a dangerous person, you know! [Smil- 
ing archly.] 

Lee [bowing in his most beautiful manner]. A 
most attractive danger. 

Miss Russell. Dangers have their detrac- 
tions, don't they? You politic young man with 

31 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



your compliments. Tm sure you are a soldier — 
soldiers are so politic. 

Lee. Some of them have tried to be, but 
senators beat them. 

Miss Russell. But you are a soldier, aren't 
you? 

Lee. Well, yes, I have had that honor. 

Miss Russell. There, I knew it. Tm a great 
character reader. I knew you were a soldier by 
your feet. You can always tell a soldier by his 
feet. Never look at his head — that doesn't mat- 
ter. And I'll wager you were an officer — a first 
lieutenant. 

Lee. Hardly that — I was a captain. 

Miss Russell. Oh, indeed! Then Til wager 
you rose from the ranks. 

Lee. No, I went to an officers' reserve camp. 
You see, I had an uncle in Congress. 

Miss Russell. Oh, how importunate. 

Lee. It was really quite easy — and safe. If 
you enlist as a private you may get into a bunch 
of awful roughnecks. 

Miss Russell. I can see that private hfe 
would always be questionable. 

Lee. I shouldn't want mine to be to you. 

Miss Russell. Oh, you flatterer! I have 
always heard that millinery men and especially 
Southerners are awful flatterers. 

Lee [in smiling gallantry]. Oh, Miss Russell, 
you wouldn't think me insincere? I assure you 
I mean everything I say to you. 

Miss Russell [coyly]. I beHeve you are a flirt. 

32 



THE WEAK-END 



But I interrupted your telephoning. It must 
have been to your sweetheart. 

Lee. Oh, no, indeed. I was — I — you see I 
forgot — my toothbrush. And I was just going 
to — 

Miss Russell. Let me get one for you. 
Thomas, the butler, is going in to town this 
evening. He always goes in Saturday evening for 
a toot, you know. He is going to do several little 
omissions for me and I shall be delighted to have 
him buy a toothbrush. He shall get you some 
powder or paste, too. 

Lee. How sweet of you. 

Miss Russell. Not at all. Do you know, I 
would do anything for you — do you believe it? 

Lee. I, oh — I should Hke to believe it. 

Miss Russell. You are a flirt. 

Lee. Really not. 

Miss Russell. You and I will have a Httie 
secret. Just our own weenty-teenty secret. 
Anything you want — anything — you come to me 
about — a toothbrush or anything — and I will 
make it my care to look after all your wants. 

Lee. Oh, Miss Russell, you are too good. 

Miss Russell. Don*t call me Miss Russell — 
call me — Clara! 

Lee. I must go now. Mrs. Winthrop wants me. 

Miss Russell. Remember our secret! And 
don*t you ask her for anything, or Ethel, or any- 
body but me! 

Lee. You shall be my fairy-godmother. 

Miss Russell. And you shall be my fairy 
prince. Don*t forget our secret! 

33 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Lee. No. [^s he starts to go she holds out her 
hand.] 

Miss Russell. To close our bargain. 

Lee. And seal it. [He bends over her hand and 
kisses ity then hurries off.] 

Miss Russell [as he goes]. Oh, you — [when he 
is gone] — darling! 

Jim [entering, stands and looks at Miss Russell]. 
Oh, here you are. Miss Russell, busy as usual. 

Miss Russell. Oh, you imperial young per- 
son. [With a wink at him and a shrug.] I was 
hunting Mrs. Winthrop. I have looked every- 
where for her — in the garden and even in the 
barage, but she doesn't seem to be anywhere on 
the astute. 

Jim. Maybe she's come back into the house 
now. It's a lovely house. Miss Russell. Must 
be awfully jolly to be somebody's secretary and 
live in such a nifty place. 

Miss Russell. It is charming. Mrs. Win- 
throp has such good taste and is so fond of art. 
That litttle Pellagra figue there {pointing to 
a Tenagra figure) I think is adorable. And 
that little bronze copy of the MacMonnies De- 
butante I think is dear. 

Jim. She hasn't any more clothes on than the 
average debutante. I don't know much about art. 

Miss Russell. Of course, I'm not a dinosaur 
myself, but I've picked up a good deal of mal- 
formation from Mrs. Winthrop. 

Miss Gottschalk [returning from the drawing- 
room]. The couch in there is as uncomfortable as 
this one. I shall have one of my own Davenports 

34 



THE WEAK-END 



brought out. [She reclines on the couch again and 
closes her eyes.] 

Jim [looks rather puzzled ^ hut smiles gallantly]. 
Well, I leave all that to the ladies. 

Miss Russell [tapping him on the arm with her 
fan]. Of course, you do, you great big soldier- 
man — what do you care about art? Your spear 
is war! I adore soldiers — one almost wishes we 
could have another war. But glory rhymes with 
gory. If we could have wars without bloodshed! 

Jim [looking gloomy]. Does it? I ain't much on 
poetry, either. 

Miss Russell. Of course not, you big, brave 
warrior! You leave all the little embroideries of 
life to the ladies. 

Jim. Well, I don't know. Tm used to acci- 
dents — having driven my Lizzie — and I did want 
to get to France. But, Miss Russell, I'll be frank 
with you, I never got anywhere beyond the Ohio 
River. What I had to do was wash plates, and 
after that I took care of the men that went crazy. 
I guess they gave me the job because I'm big. 
They seemed to regard me as a sort of human 
punching bag in uniform. 

Miss Russell. My dear, life always has its 
full-backs. 

Jim. Well, I'm used to accidents — if only I — 

Miss Russell. It isn't all roses here. It's 
difficult living wit*h [nodding her head in the di- 
rection of Miss Gottschalk] an octogeranium like 
that. Stone-deaf and SO old! [Lowering her voice 
to a stage whisper \ She'll soon be quite intrepid! 
[Louder\ Perhaps Mrs. Winthrop is in her room. 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Jim. You're not going to leave me? [With an 
apprehensive glance at Miss Gottschalk,] 

Miss Russell. Oh, you soldier-men are such 
flirts! Mr. Lee is a soldier, a captain. 

Jim. Just his luck. 

Miss Russell. And, oh, he is so handsome 
and gallant, don't you think so ? 

Jim. I hadn't noticed it. 

Miss Russell. Oh, he is. But all you sol- 
diers are flirts! [She scuttles of^ looking back and 
throwing him a kiss. Jim gives a furtive glance at 
Miss Gottschalk and steals of^ tiptoeing,] 

Miss Gottschalk. James Doolittle, don't you 
try — [He flees,] 

Mrs. Winthrop [as she and Jerry enter from the 
porch]. My dear, it is perfectly lovely! They 
have fallen in love with each other at first sight. 

Miss Gottschalk. Who have? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Mr. Lee and Miss Robert- 
son. 

Miss Gottschalk. Has either of them any 

money ? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, what a thing to suggest! 
It is love, my dear, love! You can just see they 
were made for each other — they look alike — they 
are like a young god and goddess — both tall and 
fair. They are alike temperamentally, too, both 
so modest and shy. Being so similar is why they 
are attracted to each other. It is an axiom of 
mine that like attracts like. 

Jerry. Well, by Jinks! 

Mrs. Winthrop. It is beautiful to look on 
and see the young love dawning in their eyes. 

36 



THE WEAK-END 



Miss Gottschalk. Can either of these young 
people play bridge? 

Jerry [as an automobile horn is heard]. That 
must be the rest of the bunch. [Almost imme- 
diately Angey Walter y and then LiZy with her dogy 
come running in.] 

Ange. How do you do, Mrs. Winthrop? 

[They all greet one another.] 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, you dear children, I am 
so delighted to have you. 

Ange. Especially Liz*s dog. 

Liz. It was sweet of you to let me bring 
Fido. 

Mrs. Winthrop. What a strange name for a 
bulldog! 

Jerry. Liz calls him Fido because it is the 
generic name for dogs in her family, just as Maggie 
is for cooks in ours. 

Liz. He loves so to ride in an automobile. 

Jerry. Well, you got here all right, all of you 
— Liz and Fido and Ange and Walter — four. 

Ange. Walter is the safe and sane 4th. 

Liz. He is that — you can always depend on 
old Walter. 

Ange. Have the others really arrived? We 
expected to pick up Jimmie*s bones scattered on 
the road. 

Jerry [as Jim comes in]. Let him speak for 
himself. 

Jim. I don't see why you take it for granted I 
couldn't get out here without an accident. 

Ange. There were probably no trees along the 
road. Jimmie forgets his car is not a cat. 

31 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Walter. When he tried to ford the river he 
thought it was a fish. 

Jerry. Instead of a Ford, 

Ange. Why, there is Miss Gottschalk, I didn't 
see her. [She goes to speak to Miss Gottschalk^ 
followed by Walter and Liz.] 

Mrs. Winthrop. Children, now that we are 
all together — all except Ethel, and she knows — 
and before our two young strangers join us, I 
want to tell you something and obtain your co- 
operation. [She looks aroundy gathers them all 
together y and exclaims "Hush."] Jerry's friend, 
Mr. Lee, and Ethel's friend. Miss Robertson, 
have met and the little god of love is already at 
work with his merry pranks. It is perfectly clear 
that these two have fallen in love with each 
other at first sight, and I thought I'd better tell 
you so that you will know what course to pursue. 
You will all have to be considerate and discreet 
and make opportunities for them to be alone 
together as much as possible. 

Jim [looking slyly at Ange], I say, though, Mrs. 
Winthrop, isn't it rather a shame? I brought 
her out here and she's a peach, and I've not even 
had a look in. I didn't know there was going to 
be a frame-up. 

Ange [teasingly]. You were born to disappoint- 
ment, Jimmie. This is another case where you 
will have to practise your noble self-sacrifice. 

Mrs. Winthrop. I see I can count on your 
co-operation. 

Miss Gottschalk [sitting up]. Oh, there you 
are. 

38 



THE WEAK-END 



Mrs. Winthrop. All the world loves a lover. 

Miss Gottschalk. Except deaf old women. 

Mrs. Winthrop [smiling]. The deaf, my 
dears, are as paradoxical as parrots — they sur- 
prise you with apropos remarks when they haven't 
heard a word. 

Miss Russell [hurrying in]. Oh, has the 
party all assembled? How do you do, every- 
body! [Looking about.] All here except Mr. Lee, 
that perfectly charming young man. 

Ange [to Ethel, who slowly walks in, carrying a 
glass of limeade]. Hello, Ethel. 

Ethel. Hello. 

Walter. Hello, Ethel. It's a warm day. 

Ethel. Hello. 

[Leander and Gwen appear from different direc- 
tionsy she from the back-hall, he from the 
porch.] 

Mrs. Winthrop {with her finger on her lip]. 
Hush! Here they come! Remember what I 
told you! 

Miss Russell [hastening to Lee's side]. Re- 
member our secret! If you want anything — a 
handkerchief — I have lots of them — or comb or 
nail-file — 

Mrs. Winthrop. Where have you truants 
been ? 

Miss Gottschalk. Can any of you young 
people play bridge? 

Jerry. Let's have a dance. [He starts the vic- 
trola, A wild Hawaiian tune is heard. They all 
start to dance,] 

[Curtain to Act L] 

39 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



ACT 11. 

[yf J remarked before^ the scene is in the hallway 
of Mrs, Winthrop's country house. It is the 
next afternoon — Saturday^ and still very hot, 
Jerry comes in through one door and Ethel 
through another^ the latter carrying a tall glass of 
limeade.] 

Jerry. There you are with that eternal 
limeade. 

Ethel [calmly seating herself in a rocking-chair 
and setting her glass on a table at her side], Jerry, 
you smoke too much. You consume entirely too 
many cigarettes — they make you nervous. 

Jerry. Me nervous? Well, by Jimminy! I 
don't have to dope myself up on limeade all the 
time to keep calm. I reckon it's sweets to the 
sweet, and limes to a lemon. Lime is an awful 
word — sounds like slime. 

Ethel. You are inconsequential, as usual. 
What have you done with your protege? 

Jerry. Leander? He's no protege of mine. 

Ethel. You brought him here. 

Jerry. I didn't. As a matter of fact Miss 
Russell wrote the note asking him out for the week- 
end — spelled it w-e-a-k, too. And, by Jinks, it's 
the way to spell it as far as he is concerned. 
However, it's not my fault if he turned out a pie. 

Ethel. He isn't. He's a very pleasant fellow. 

Jerry. He's a nut. Why can't he carry on 

40 



THE WEAK-END 



his own love affair? Aunt says to get him and 
Gwen together and give him a chance, and I get 
them together — I spend all my valuable time get- 
ting them together — and he acts like a kitten 
spitting at a saucer of milk. 

Ethel. I suppose you are not tactful. 

Jerry. I'm the soul of tact. But, by gum, if 
I were in love with a girl, you wouldn't have to 
be dragging me after her with a rope all the time. 
[Gives Ethel a sidelong^ dark look.] Anyhow, it's 
my private opinion that he's nuts on Clara. 

Ethel. Miss Russell? Jerry, you perfect idiot. 

Jerry. Well, you never can tell — love's a 
funny dope. Guys have been known to fall in 
love with their grandmothers before. There's 
Antony and Cleopatra. Who knows but what 
Clara has turned into a vamp. Anyhow, he hops 
around after her like a young sparrow after its ma. 

Ethel. Oh, it's all her fault. She's crazy 
about him, that is quite evident. 

Jerry. Of course, you blame the woman — 
that's the catty way girls have. If he isn't in love 
with her, he's acting like a worse idiot than I 
thought he was. 

[Mrs. Winthrop comes in dressed in a pretty 
summer gown and carrying her knitting.] 

Mrs. Winthrop. Here you two are again! 

Jerry. Aunt, I should think all that wool stuff 
would be awfully hot in this weather. 

Mrs. Winthrop. It is, dear, but duty takes 
no account of weather. Just as you stood by the 
guns so do we stand by our knitting. 

Jerry. I thought there'd been enough sweat- 

41 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

ers. I got nineteen. Anyway, the war is over, 
all the officers and even some of the men are 
home. 

Mrs. Winthrop. This is Red Cross work, 
dear, which never ceases. We are going to de- 
vote ourselves to Persia. 

Jerry. I should think it was hot enough 
there. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Wool is an absorbent. All 
the aviators use it. It is necessary in all climes 
to absorb night dampness. 

Jerry. Fm beat. 

Mrs. Winthrop. I thought everyone had gone 
swimming? But you two are always having a 
tete-a-tete. [She smiles at them^ and they look 
cross\ Of course the others understand. 

Ethel. I hope they do understand. 

Jerry. You bet I hope so. 

Mrs. Winthrop. It is so nice to have an even 
number of men and girls — they get to know each 
other so well. 

Jerry. And sprout so many love affairs. 

Ethel. Love affairs are like pots — they never 
boil if they're watched. 

Jerry. Ethel, you're a regular Luke McLuke 
for making bon mots. 

Miss Russell [hurrying in]. Oh, there you 
are. I have been hunting for you everywhere — 
I am obliged to tell you of the escalades of the dog. 

Ethel. Aunt, dear, I really think you will have 
to indicate gently in your beautiful, tactful way 
to Liz Smith that her dog isn't altogether wel- 
come. 

42 



THE WEAK-END 



Mrs. Winthrop. Why, I know he is a perfect 
nuisance, but how am I going to be able to tell 
Elizabeth? She dotes on him so. 

Miss Russell. If he stays, all the servants 
will leave. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Has he done much harm? 

Miss Russell [to Ethel]. You tell her. 

Ethel. Yesterday he ate up the laundress* 
best hat and chased the cows just before milking 
time and that, they say, is so bad for the cows. 

Miss Russell. John says it drives the milk 
into the cows' horns. 

Ethel. John was infuriated and threw rocks 
at Fido till he sprained his shoulder, which didn't 
improve his temper. 

Mrs. Winthrop. John ought to keep the cows 
penned up more closely. Elizabeth says the dog 
is so young and never really means any harm. 

Jerry. But a dog is judged by what he does, 
not what he means — by effect, not cause. 

Ethel. This morning he broke away from Liz 
and dug up Giovanni's pet rosebed in the garden. 
Giovanni is usually very deferential with me, but 
when he told me about it he forgot himself com- 
pletely — I have never in my life heard such oaths. 

Jerry. Trust a dago to swear — it takes the 
Holy Roman Empire to cuss. 

Ethel. It seems that when Giovanni remon- 
strated with Fido, the dog thought he was play- 
ing and jumped on him, throwing him down and 
— you know it had been raining in the night and 
the flower-bed was muddy — Fido rolled Giovanni 
in the mud. 

43 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Mrs. Winthrop. But it was all in play. 

Ethel. But Giovanni didn't want to play — 
he is a serious-minded old man. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Perhaps you'd better tell 
Elizabeth to watch her dog more closely. 

Ethel. Well, Aunt, dear, you are the one who 
ought to tell her, not I. 

Mrs. Winthrop [turning to Miss Russell]. 
Then you do it for me, Clara. 

Miss Russell. Oh, Helen, really, I couldn't. 
I could write a consulting note to a stranger if 
necessary, but to speak to Liz would be abso- 
lutely imperative in me, and she knows I have a 
perfect perversion to dogs. 

Ethel. But we can't lose all the servants. 

Mrs. Winthrop [to Ethel]. Well, then, send 
Liz to me. 

Ethel. I will if I can find her, but I have to 
attend to the salad for dinner. 

Jerry. You do that very well, Ethel. You 
ought to confine yourself to salads. 

Ethel. They are better dressed and not so 
green as some young men. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Perhaps you could find Liz. 
Remember, dear [to Ethel as she goes]^ to do all 
you can for Gwendolyn and Leander. They are 
madly in love, but they are both so. absurdly 
shy. I don't believe he has actually proposed to 
her yet. And he an officer, too. But they say a 
soldier who will intrepidly face a gun will tremble 
before a woman. The dears! They both talk to 
me and tell me how they feel, but when they are 

44 



THE WEAK-END 



together they are so timid. Jerry, you really 
ought to do more for Leander. 

Jerry. Oh, help a camel to swim in sand! 
Why doesn't he pick up his feet? Anyhow, he's 
nuts on Clara. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Gervaise, don't make me 
think you are a born fool. 

Jerry. It's not me that's a fool. I tell you 
it's true — he is. He's just the sort of degenerate 
that would fall in love with his maiden aunt. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Gervaise! Remember to 
whom you are talking. I never allow that word 
to be used in my presence. 

Jerry. Well, I can't help the facts. You 
watch 'em. He's nuts on her. Of course Ethel 
says it's all Clara's fault, but — 

Mrs. Winthrop. It is absurd, ridiculous. It 
can't be. 

Jerry. But it is. 

Mrs. Winthrop. She ought to be ashamed of 
herself. She is old enough to be his mother. 

Jerry. But she's sentimental. 

Mrs. Winthrop. She never had a love affair 
in her life. 

Jerry. All the more why she's having it good 
and hard now. Her passion has been bottled up. 

Mrs. Winthrop. I will attend to Miss Russell. 
I will give her letters to write that will take every 
scrap of her time for the rest of the summer. I 
wish she would learn to use the typewriter, but 
she never gets beyond one finger and she wears 
out the paper changing mistakes. Oh, go find 
Lee and bring him to me. 

45 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



Jerry. There comes the love-sick ostrich now. 
Like a horse that hasn't made up its mind to race. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, go find Gwendolyn and 
bring her here. 

XJerry heaves a sigh and goes^ passing Leander 
entering.] 

Mrs. Winthrop [beaming on Lee], Jerry and I 
were just talking about what fun you would have 
swimming. 

Lee. But I don't swim. 

Mrs. Winthrop. You don't? What a pity! 
Gwendolyn swims beautifully. 

Lee [without enthusiasm]. Does she? 

Mrs. Winthrop. It is the only thing you 
haven't in common. She will have to teach you. 

Lee. She'd have a very stupid pupil. Nobody 
could ever teach me to swim — I don't seem built 
for it. I shouldn't dream of bothering her. And 
going in the water always gives me a cold. 

Mrs. Winthrop. It wouldn't on such a warm 
day — and with such a teacher. Oh, my dear boy 
[smiling at him], I am perfectly well aware how 
things are with you. 

Lee. With me? 

Mrs. Winthrop. With you and Gwendolyn. 
She is madly in love with you. 

Lee. Oh, Mrs. Winthrop, you are very much 
mistaken. 

Mrs. Winthrop. No, no, I am not mistaken 
in the least — I know. 

Lee. It is just your goodness of heart that 
makes you think so — your kindness. You have 
talked to me so much about her liking me, but 

46 



THE WEAK-END 



she doesn't, really. She doesn't show a sign of 
it. She doesn't give a hang about me. She 
couldn't care for a fellow like me. 

Mrs. Winthrop. You are just her type. 
Romantic girls like Gwen always love soldiers. 

Lee. I never even got to France. 

Mrs. Winthrop. That wasn't your fault, I'm 
sure. 

Lee. Sick with the flu all the time. 

Mrs. Winthrop. But you are brave, if del- 
icate. 

Lee [leaning back dejectedly on a chair as if he 
wants to lie down]. Much of a soldier I was! 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, a wonderful looking 
soldier and a beautiful lover. 

Lee. But she doesn't think so. 

Mrs. Winthrop. That is just your natural 
pessimism. You are the hopeless type of lover — 
and I will say that is the kind I adore and so 
does Gwen. 

Lee. But I assure you, dear lady, I am not 
at all the sort of man she would look at. 

Mrs. Winthrop. It is only your modesty that 
makes you feel that way, your modesty and faint 
heart. You know faint heart never won fair 
lady! But you have already won her — you have 
only to say the word. 

Lee [aghast]. What? 

Mrs. Winthrop. My dear boy, she is per- 
fectly crazy about you. Why, she has told me so. 

Lee. She has told you that? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, in a thousand ways. 
Oh, it is perfectly obvious to everybody but you. 

47 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Lee. You mean the — the others have seen it? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Why, they are all talking 
about it. 

Lee. My God! 

Mrs. Winthrop. You silly boy, you are won- 
derfully lucky. Most men would have to work 
hard to make a conquest, but here a sweet, 
lovely girl has fallen head over ears in love with 
you and you have nothing to do but take her. 

Lee. Haven't U Oh! 

Mrs. Winthrop. Only one thing can happen 
when a fascinating girl falls in love with a man — 
his fate is sealed. If he is a chivalrous Virginia 
gentleman like you, his honor leaves him no 
choice. 

Lee [wi/d/y]. No choice, Mrs. Winthrop! 

Mrs. Winthrop [wM smiling archness]. Oh, 
these things seem so beautifully tragic to youth 
— to the unbelieving, despondent lover. My dear, 
you are a poem, a perfect poem. 

Lee. I don't want to be a poem. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Perhaps not now — you can't 
appreciate the beauty of it — but when it is all 
happily consummated you will look back at this 
time with a realization of the charm of it and the 
utmost pleasure in it — when you are happily 
married to her. 

Lee. Married to her! 

Mrs. Winthrop. Yes, my dear boy, that is 
how it is going to end. Gwen is coming in here 
in a moment. You will like to walk with her 
down to the river before the others. The river 
is so romantic. 

48 



THE WEAK-END 



Lee [nervously starting to go]. Yes, of course, 
-I'd love to, but I promised Jim Vd help him 
change a tire on his machine — Vrc\ afraid he's 
waiting for me now. Vm so sorry, but IVe got 
to go. 

Mrs. Winthrop. You stay right here. Til 
find Jimmie, myself, and tell him you were de- 
tained. Stay here till I return, I want to plan 
something with you. [She goes. Lee stands in 
nervous perturbation^ looking non-plussed and wor- 
ried ^ when Miss Russell flutters in. When she sees 
hiniy she stops and smiles blissfully.] 

Miss Russell. You here and alone! What a 
co-accident! 

Lee [gloomily]. The world seems to be full of 
co-accidents and coincidents and co-partners and 
may be full of co-respondents. 

Miss Russell. My dear, you seem impressed. 

Lee [forcing a smile]. Oh, not at all. Tm gay. 
But I suppose everyone gets a little depressed 
occasionally. 

Miss Russell. But a soldier shouldn^t — they 
are so self-constrained and capacious. 

Lee. I don't believe I have just the qualifica- 
tions of a soldier. Sometimes a very harmless 
fellow is born into a family of politicians and sol- 
diers. There was Hamlet, for instance. 

Miss Russell. Oh, my prince — I said you 
were my prince, you know — I believe you are like 
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. He is my favorite 
hero in all fiction. He is so romanesque. I can 
understand and sympathise with you for mel- 
ancholy is my bete nuance, too. But I can't bear 

49 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

to have you unhappy. I am very salacious about 
you. I can't bear to have you moribund or 
hypodermic. 

Lee [looking at her quizzically and with a slight 
frown], I should hate to think of being that 
myself. I wonder what you do mean? 

Miss Russell. Oh, I wonder if I was using 
the wrong word again. I make so many slips of 
the tongue — it is quite uninstitutional, I assure 
you, and I always know what I mean. 

Lee. That's more than most people do. 

Miss Russell. Oh, thank you, I knew you 
would understand. There is such perfect sim- 
plicity between us, I feel sure. This little weak- 
ness of mine — but hasn't everybody some little 
weakness ? 

Lee. Everybody has, and it's a very small 
one if it is only in words. 

Miss Russell. Oh, you are so sweet to me! 
Perhaps it is only pity, but "pity is akin to love," 
you know. Well, this little weakness is inherited, 
so you see it isn't a wilful fault. My father had 
it — it amounted to aphorism — no, I mean eu- 
phuism with him. He had euphuism in words. 

Lee. Oh, my dear lady, many people have 
that. But, will you pardon me? I have an 
engagement — 

Miss Russell. Surely I mustn't be selfish 
with you when you are in so much command — 
so populace. But you don't hate me, do you? 

Lee. Oh, dear lady, on the contrary — 

Miss Russell. You like me a little? 

Lee. Oh! 

50 



THE WEAK-END 



Miss Russell. Shall I tell you what I feel? 
I feel that we are twin souls. [She holds out her 
handy he bends over and kisses it.\ Call me Clara! 

Lee. Oh, really — 

Miss Russell. Say it, please do! 

Lee. Ah! 

Miss Russell. Just whisper it! 

Lee. Clara. [He ejaculates it and tears himself 
awajy fleeing upstairs just as Jerry comes in from 
behind with Gwendolyn^ 

Jerry. Where's Lee? 

Miss Russell. He's just gone to keep an 
appointment. He is so populace. 

Jerry. Well, that damned — \with a sidelong 
glance at Gwendolyn] — giraffe! I beg your pardon. 
But he has such a beautiful coat, you know, just 
like a giraffe — and lovely eyes. 

[Miss Russell glances at him angrily and goes 
upstairs, Mrs, Winthrop comes in from the 
porch,] 

Jerry. Do you know where Lee is? 

Mrs. Winthrop. I think he had to keep an 
appointment with Jimmie to repair a tire. 

Jerry. Well, that damned galoot! 

Mrs. Winthrop. Gervaise! 

Jerry. Of course I mean Jim. I reckon it 
takes a pair to repair a tire. It makes me tired. 
All my efforts in vain. 

Mrs. Winthrop. You might be able to help 
them and get through sooner. 

Jerry. Well, I might for a few minutes, but 
I tell you pretty soon Tm going swimming whether 
anyone else goes or not. 

SI 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Mrs. Winthrop. Jerry, bring Leander here 
to me in about five minutes, I want to ask him 
to write to his mother for that recipe for sweet 
pickles he was talking about. 

Jerry. All right, I'll fix him — Fll put a halter 
round his neck. [He goes.] 

Mrs. Winthrop. Dear, Lee had faithfully 
promised poor unfortunate Jimmie to help him, 
but when he heard you were coming in here he 
could hardly tear himself away. I have never in 
my life seen a young man so desperately in love 
with a girl as he is with you. 

Gwendolyn. Oh, Mrs. Winthrop! 

Mrs. Winthrop. I have been telling you all 
along how it is with him. It was love at first 
sight, and he is so unhappy because he thinks 
you don't care. 

Gwendolyn. But, Mrs. Winthrop, I — 

Mrs. Winthrop. Of course I know you do, 
but how can I persuade him of that? He ought 
to press his suit himself, but he is so desperately 
despondent and shy. I have never in my life 
seen a young man so shy and modest. 

Gwendolyn. But, Mrs. Winthrop — he — 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, he is mad about you, 
positively mad! He has told me all about it. 

Gwendolyn [shocked]. He hasn't told you 
that? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, my dear, in a thousand 
ways. It is perfectly apparent to everybody. 

Gwendolyn. You mean the others have no- 
ticed it? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Why, certainly, how could 

52 



THE WEAK-END 



they help it? They are all talking about it. 
Everybody is so sorry for him. It is a serious 
thing. I don't know what will happen if you 
refuse him. 

Gwendolyn. Oh, Mrs. Winthrop, that isn't 
possible. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Dear girl, it is not only 
possible, but it has been done. Girls don't know 
their responsibility. I know a case of suicide — 

Gwendolyn. Oh, Mrs. Winthrop, how hor- 
rible! 

Mrs. Winthrop. I have known personally in 
my own experience three suicides from thwarted 
love. He is a soldier, and soldiers are so reckless. 
And southern men are notoriously hot-headed. 
He is a Virginian, you know. [Starting to go.] 
When he comes back, encourage him. Remember 
you are playing with fire. [She goes. Gwendolyn 
stands looking distraught^ as though she saw a 
ghost, then turns and follows Mrs. Winthrop. In 
a moment Ethel and Liz appear \ 

Liz. Do you know what she wanted me for? 

Ethel. I have a strong suspicion. 

Liz. Oh, go on and tell. You make me feel 
as if I had been caught throwing paper wads at 
the teacher and been sent for to appear before 
the principal. You are so terrifically superior 
and secretive, Ethel. 

Ethel. Not in the least. I only endeavor to 
attend to my own business. 

Liz [giving her an amused look]. Ethel, apropos 
of nothing at all, I do wish that aunt of yours — 
you know I love her dearly — but I do wish she 

S3 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



wouldn't always be throwing me at Jimmie 
Doolittle's head. Jimmie is a dear great big 
baby, and of course I love him, but it must be 
embarrassing for him to have me hurtling through 
the air at his head continuously. And then there 
are other men. There's that nice Lee fellow — 
he's pleasant, even if he is in love with Gwen. 
And there's Walter. 

Ethel. The world is wide, my child. There 
are even men in it who are not under this roof. 

Liz. There comes your aunt now. 

Ethel. Give her a gentle hint, she has one 
for you — exchange of courtesies. I must go, I've 
been neglecting the salad. [She disappears out 
through the back-hall as Mrs, Winthrop enters 
from the porch^ followed by the troubled Gwendolyn,] 

Mrs. Winthrop. My dear [to Gwendolyn]^ you 
are with me too much. You would have much 
more enjoyment with a certain young man. 

Gwendolyn. I don't know what is the matter 
with me, Mrs. Winthrop, but I can't bear to 
have you out of my sight. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, Elizabeth, you are just 
the one I wanted to talk with about something. 

Liz. I wanted to talk to you about something, 
too, Mrs. Winthrop — I hope it isn't the same 
thing — but now it hardly seems worth while. 
You make me feel inadequate. Somehow people 
always make me feel inadequate. 

Mrs. Winthrop. You inadequate, Elizabeth! 
What a word to use! Why, I know you were an 
honor student at college, taking all sorts of prizes 

54 



THE WEAK-END 



and then you are so useful and practical in real 
life — just like Jimmie. You two are so alike! 
[Smiling and shaking her head,] He can take an 
automobile completely apart. 

Liz. Oh, dear me, Tm sure we're not. I 
shouldn't dream of disturbing an automobile^s 
inward emotions. Those parts Mr. Ford has 
joined together let no man put asunder. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Elizabeth, you are so clever! 
I only want you to have the best time in the 
world and not worry in the least about your dog. 
[A scrambling and much noise is heard and Ethel 
and Jerry enter^ the latter dressed in his bathing- 
suit and dragging or rather being dragged by a 
strong^ pitching young bull-terrier on the end of a 
piece of clothes-line,] 

Jerry. Here is the octopus. I saved his life — 
much thanks he gave me. [Walter and Leander 
enter,] 

Ethel. You oughtn't to have cut the clothes- 
line. Maggie will be more than vexed. 

Jerry. Clothes-line! I'd have cut the cord 
from a holy father's cassock or anything else to 
chain this charging dinosaur. The servants were 
going to kill him. 

Liz. Oh, my Fido! 

Mrs. Winthrop. What is the matter? 

Jerry. He was cutting up high jinks in the 
kitchen and stole the roast of beef for tomorrow's 
dinner. 

Ethel. Aunt, cook is in an awful rage. He 
has added insult to injury — you know yesterday 

ss 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



he chewed up her best hat with poppies on it. 
She is packing her trunk. 

[y^nge and Jimmie enter.] 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, my dear, with all these 
people in the house! 

Jerry. Perhaps you can pacify her if you 
have the dog shot. 

Liz. Oh, mercy, no! You mustn't shoot Fido! 
He is as innocent as a baby. 

Jerry. A baby with small-pox may be in- 
nocent. 

Liz. I will take him home if anybody will 
drive us. 

Jerry. No one can spare the time — we are 
all going in swimming. 

Liz. One of the servants, then. 

Jerry. You couldn't persuade any of them to 
go near him. They wouldn't feel safe up a syca- 
more tree with this icthyosaurus at the bottom. 

Lee [stepping forward]. Won't you permit me 
to take charge of him? I should love to be of 
some use to you all, and as I don't swim and am 
not going in, I could watch him. 

Liz. Oh, will you? 

Lee {smiling and taking the rope from Jerry]. 
I surely will. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, you dear boy, it is the 
true Virginia gentleman that always does the 
chivalrous thing. 

Jerry. Now perhaps we can have our swim 
at last. Come on, people. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Yes, yes, run along, chil- 
dren, all of you and have a good time. 

56 



THE WEAK-END 



Ethel [to Mrs. Winthrop], Perhaps you can 
persuade cook to stay. You'd better try. [They 
all start to go,] 

Liz [to Lee as they go]. If you can just hold him 
till I get a chance to take him home! 

Mrs. Winthrop. Maybe Jimmie can arrange 
to drive you in this evening by moonlight in his 
Ford. 

[They all go and Miss Gotts chalk enters with a 
book in her hand.] 

Miss GoTTSCHALK. Where are they all going 
now? 

Mrs. Winthrop [shrieking to her]. They are 
going in bathing. 

Miss Gottschalk. Are they all going in? 

Mrs. Winthrop. All except Leander Lee — he 
doesn't swim. 

Miss Gottschalk. He impresses me as being 
a young man who couldn't swim. 

Mrs. Winthrop. He says going into the water 
always gives him a cold. 

Miss Gottschalk. He impresses me as being 
a young man who would take very good care of 
his health. It is dull that they all want to go in 
swimming. I should think some of them would 
want to play a quiet game of bridge on so hot an 
afternoon. There is Lee and you and I — Ethel 
plays very well, she would make a fourth hand. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Leander has to take care of 
Liz Smith's dog — it has been doing all sorts of 
damage. 

Miss Gottschalk. He doesn't impress me as 

57 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



a young man who would have much control 
over a dog. 

Mrs. Winthrop. It has destroyed Maggie's 
hat, \always shouting at her] dug up a rose-bed, 
chased the cows, mauled Giovanni, stolen a roast 
of beef, and I don't know what all. Leander is 
going to hold it till it can be taken home. 

Miss GoTTSCHALK. He doesn't impress me as 
being the sort of young man who could hold on 
to anything. 

Mrs. Winthrop. I must go interview Maggie 
— she is packing her trunk to leave. Do you 
think you could manage to hear the telephone? 
There is no one else about. 

Miss Gottschalk. I sometimes don't hear 
the bell if it is going to be bothersome. But you 
know very well I hear over the telephone better 
than the other way. The wire seems to eliminate 
the usual mushiness of the human voice. 

Miss Russell [rushing in]. Oh, Helen, there 
is a perfect category! Giovanni is starting for 
town — he is going into a factotum. He says 
better are men with machines than a rose-garden 
with lions. Maggie says she will not work in a 
hotel for hyenas. All the servants are in a perfect 
stage and are going to leave. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, Clara, I do wish you 
would try to think of your words a little. You 
will drive me crazy with your absurd vocabulary. 
Miss Russell. Oh, you think too much of 
vocabulary. It is really a very small matter. 
Mr. Lee says so. He thinks little mistakes are 
quite uninopportune. 

58 



THE WEAK-END 



Mrs. Winthrop. He does, does he? 

Miss Russell. To him my Httle misrepre- 
sentations are altogether charming. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Clara, you surprise me. 
What in the world can you have to talk about 
with that young man? 

Miss Russell. We have a great deal to talk 
about. Don't think because you are a widow 
that other women are not interested in men. 

Mrs. Winthrop. At your age! 

Miss Russell. I am younger than you, you 
remember — two classes below you. Age has 
nothing to do with propinquity, and that is it, 
you see — I am his propinquity. 

Mrs. Winthrop. This is shocking! 

Miss Russell. Not at all. Detractions, 
though inexculpable, are perfectly natural. He 
and I are wholly congenital. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, will you drive me abso- 
lutely mad with your crazy words, when I am 
already nearly frantic? Go and stop Giovanni. 

Miss Russell [bursting into tears]. Do you 
attack me? Merciful Heavens! This is the last 
stroke ! I shall leave you ! I shall become a nun ! 
Better are clustered walls than the home of a 
friend who insinuates one! 

Miss Gottschalk [looking at the weeping Miss 
Russell], Don't be a goose. 

Mrs. Winthrop. I will talk to you later. 
Now go at once and persuade Giovanni to stay. 

Miss Russell. I wonder [with dignity] that 
you think me culpable of assuaging anything. 
[She goes weeping] 

59 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Mrs. Winthrop. And don't let your mind 
dwell on Lee. He is engaged to be married to 
Gwendolyn and at the present minute he has 
gone in swimming with her. 

Miss Russell. Mercy, he can't swim! He 
told me so. Oh, he is in danger! Oh, you have 
probably sent him to his death! 

Mrs. Winthrop. Nonsense. He is in no more 
danger of his death than if he were in a bathtub. 
And we cannot think of such foolish little things 
when all the domestic arrangements are so topsy- 
turvy. I cannot lose all my servants. Go and 
talk to Giovanni. [Miss Russell makes her exit,] 
If Maggie goes I don't know what in the world 
I shall do. She has been with me twenty years. 
It will break up the party. It will break up 
everything. 

Miss Gottschalk [who has heard only in part]. 
Did you say you are going to break up? That 
will suit me. Then we can go to Atlantic City. 
Atlantic City will be quieter. [Mrs, Winthrop 
starts to go. Miss Gottschalk settles herself on the 
couch and reads her novel. In a Jew moments the 
telephone bell rings. She does not hear it for some 
time. At last she looks up and around with a listen- 
ing expression on her face y turns her head on one 
sidCy finally gets up and goes to the telephone?^ 

Miss Gottschalk. Did the bell ring.? [She 
speaks slowly and in a loud monotonous voice,] 
I mean the telephone bell — did it ring? — You 
will have to speak clearly and distinctly. [She 
speaks as one accustomed to being obeyed.] I say, 
speak clearly and distinctly. You sound as 

60 



THE WEAK-END 



though you were chewing gum — if you are, take 
it out. — Don't mouth your words, don't talk as 
though your mouth were full of hot apple-sauce. 
— This is Mrs. Winthrop's house. — Miss Gwen- 
dolyn Robertson? — Yes, she is visiting here. I 
can't get her for you — she is in the water. — I am 
not going after her or anybody. — You will have 
to put up with me. [Listens in a bored manner 
for a few moments \ — How do I know you are her 
fiance? She has one here. I suppose a girl likes 
to have more than one beau, though I should 
think one would be enough of a bore. I should 
think she would be wise enough to pick one that 
could play bridge — it's surer than love to count 
on for after years. — I can't hear what you say. — 
Oh, I suppose you are the young man she was 
talking silly nonsense to a while ago. Well, I 
am the stone-deaf old woman she referred to. 
She strikes me as being the sort of young woman 
who would get herself engaged to whatever hap- 
pened to be about. She's probably engaged to a 
dozen. She is engaged to this one. — My young 
man, there are high jinks going on here. — You 
are in Chicago, four hundred miles away.^ — Well, 
I can't help that, I am not responsible for the 
geography of the country. — I can't hear you. — 
No, I am not going after anybody else. — I am 
tired of making an effort to hear you — you still 
talk as if you were eating something. — I cannot 
bother with you any longer. I am nothing but a 
stone-deaf old woman. Goodbye. \She hangs up 
the receiver^ goes hack to the couchy takes up her book 
and reads again. In a moment the bell rings. She 

6i 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

listens as before and finally gets up and picks up 
the receiver.] Well, well, well, did this telephone 
bell ring again? — Yes, I told you before it is Mrs. 
Winthrop's house. — Oh, it is a girl this time. — 
No, I can't call Mr. Leander Lee. — Why can't I 
call him.f^ Because I don't want to. — Yes, he is 
here somewhere. He is busy holding a dog. He 
is also busy making love to a girl. — Oh, I suppose 
you are the young woman he was talking such 
arrant nonsense to a while ago. Well, I am the 
stone-deaf old woman he remarked upon. — If you 
are his fiancee you'd better look to your laurels. 
He is engaged to this one out here. He strikes 
me as being the sort of young man who might 
get into almost any engagement. He probably 
has a dozen sweethearts. — At least he is engaged 
to this one here. — I can't help it if you are in 
Virginia, four hundred miles away, the world is 
large. — I am not going to talk to you any longer. 
You enunciate as if your nose was packed with 
antiphlogistine. Perhaps it is tears, they produce 
the same effect. — These love affairs are a great 
nuisance. — Remember I am only a stone-deaf old 
woman. [She calmly hangs up the receiver and 
goes back to her couch and reads. In a few minutes 
Ange and Jimmie come tearing in, breathless and 
excited, from the porch, and Mrs. Winthrop appears 
at the top of the stairs \ 

Ange [fairly sobbing]. Oh, Mrs. Winthrop, we 
were nearly frightened to death. 

Jimmie [his eyes fairly starting out of his head]. 
We have come back to break the news to you. 
There has been a horrible accident. 

62 



THE WEAK-END 



Mrs. Winthrop. Oh! oh! What is it? Tell 
me! Not Jerry? 

JiMMiE. No, it wasn't Jerry. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, oh, who? 

JiMMiE. It was Lee. He fell into the water — 
into the big hole. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, mercy — he can't swim! 
Oh, heavens, he is drowned! [Wringing her hands.] 

JiMMiE. Drowned, yes, drowned! And badly 
hurt. 

Miss Russell [shrieking]. Oh! 

Ange. No, no, he isn't drowned — not quite. 
Jimmie, you perfect idiot, you have frightened 
her to death. 

Jim. Well, you told me to break it to her. 

Ange. You have — like a battering-ram. 

Mrs. Winthrop [wringing her hands]. Oh, 
merciful heavens, one accident after another. 

Jim [to Ange]. You do nothing but find fault 
with me when you know I think everything you 
do is right. 

Ange. I'm not finding fault with you, but 
you oughtn't to have said he was drowned. 

Jim. I didn't say exactly that. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, tell me, tell me! Don't 
stand there and cavil at each other. Can't you 
see I'm in an agony of suspense? 

Jim. Well, you know, Jerry had been crazy 
about a swimming party and had been trying to 
get one up all day and never seemed to be able to 
get the bunch together and — 

Ange. Oh, Jimmie, let me tell it! 

Jim. Nobody ever lets me tell anything. 

63 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Ange. We were all going in swinrniing, some 
of us were in. Leander was standing on the bank 
with Fido when that awful dog jumped against 
him — 

Jim. The dog was only playing, you under- 
stand, he isn't really savage — he didn't mean to 
attack him — but — 

Ange. The dog jumped against him and 
pushed him over — he lost his balance, fell and 
rolled over and over right in — into the deep hole. 

Miss Russell [shrieking again]. I knew it, I 
knew he would be drowned — I had a permuta- 
tion of it! 

Mrs. Winthrop. He doesn't swim — oh, oh! 

Jim. And had all his clothes on, even his hat, 
though of course his hat fell off. 

Ange [frowning at Jim]. He went down, dis- 
appeared — came up — and went down again. 

Miss Russell. Oh! [Shrieks again.] 

Jim. If they go down the third time they 
never come up. 

Ange. Gwen jumped in after him — she grabbed 
him by his coat and the coat came off, he made 
such a fuss and floundered so — then she tried to 
catch — 

Jim. Then she tried to catch him by the hair, 
but his hair was too short — 

Ange. At last she got him by the collar of his 
shirt — 

Jim. He was scrambling and floundering and 
making so much fuss and wild dives to get hold 
of her, so she had a hard time to keep clear of him. 

Ange. He quite lost his head, of course, but she 

64 



THE WEAK-END 



was very cool and swam to shore with him and 
pulled him out. 

Miss Russell. If only I had taken charge of 
the dog. 

Jim. Then the dog would have charged you. 

Miss Russell. We might both have been 
upset and fallen into the water and drowned 
together. 

Mrs. Winthrop. She saved him, then, she 
saved him! How romantic! 

Jim. Well, of course, if she hadn't, Jerry or 
Walter would have. 

Mrs. Winthrop. But it was she! 

Miss Russell. It is just her luck. She is 
fortuitous. I never was. 

Mrs. Winthrop. And he is saved! 

Jim. If he doesn't have concussion of the brain 
from hitting his head against that stone, or 
doesn't develop pneumonia — 

Miss Russell. Oh, did he hit his head.? 

Jim. Yes, and cut it awfully. 

Ange. Here they come. 

[Gwendolyn^ Jerry, Liz, Walter, and Leander 
enter, Liz and Walter are dressed in their 
ordinary clothes, Walter is as immaculate as 
ever, Jerry is wet with bath-towels wrapped 
around his bathing suit, Gwendolyn and Le- 
ander pale and dripping, with long, black rain- 
coats on, collars turned up.] 

Mrs. Winthrop [hurrying to Lee]. Oh, my 
dear, what an escape! How thrilling and dramatic 
and romantic! It seems to have been directed 
wholly by Providence! 

8 65 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

[Miss Russell also hurries to Le under and hovers 
about him sighing and moaning and purring.] 

Jerry. Well, by gum, I reckon Providence 
chased the cows, too, and dug up the flower-bed, 
and chewed up the best summer hat, and ate the 
roast! Sportive Providence! 

Mrs. Winthrop. Gervaise! Don*t be blas- 
phemous. 

Miss Russell. Oh, if I had only had an in- 
timidation of all this, I might have taken care of 
that dog myself and the entire accident would 
have been perverted. Oh, you have cut your 
head on a wicked stone or something, too. [There 
is a slight abrasion on Lee' s forehead and already it 
is beginning to swell.] 

Mrs. Winthrop. You must lie right here 
[to Lee] and rest and have Gwendolyn take 
care of you. Jerry, dear, get him a glass of 
whisky. 

Jerry. But, Aunt, you forget we're dry— 
don't you remember that last social worker 
you entertained stole all you had left. There 
isn't a drop to make a mosquito drunk. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Then he must lie right down 
here. 

Jerry. But, Aunt, he's wet. 

Miss GoTTSCHALK. There's more hubbub here 
than a deaf old woman can stand. [Getting up.] 
Vm going. If the young man has had a ducking 
you ought to give him a good pint of whisky and 
put him to bed between blankets. He will prob- 
ably be drunk, but it will be good for him. He 
doesn't impress me as a young man who could 

66 



THE WEAK-END 



stand a ducking and not more than a teaspoonful 
of whisky. 

Lee. I don't want any whisky — I never drink. 

Jerry. Don't worry, my boy, we don't any 
of us. 

Mrs. Winthrop. He can He right here and be 
quiet and comfy and have a cup of tea. 

Walter. But he will have to change his 
clothes, Mrs. Winthrop, he's dripping. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, well, then, after all, I 
think it will be best to put him to bed and nurse 
him. 

Lee. I don't want to be put to bed and nursed. 

Walter. At least you'll consent to dry 
clothes? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Come, you must remove 
these dripping ones and put on something dry. 
I will take care of you. [She seizes them each by 
the arm and marches them out through the back hall. 
Miss Russell runs after them and puts her hand 
on Lee^s shoulder as they go, Ethel^ entering, 
passes them, stops to look at them enquiringly, then 
comes on in.] 

Ethel [in her calm tone]. Well, what in heck 
has happened now? 

Ange. Oh, such an excitement! Liz's dog 
pushed Leander into the river. 

Liz. My poor innocent Fido! I wonder where 
he is? 

Jerry. Innocent as a Bengal tiger! And Aunt 
said it was Providence. 

Ethel. But the river is shallow and today is 
hot — why the agitation? 

67 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Jerry. Leander doesn't know how to use his 
fins. 

Ange. And he fell square into the deep, 
round hole. 

Jerry. Gwen fished him out, and if that doesn't 
bring him to time, nothing will. I must get some 
duds on. 

Walter. I should think you'd better — you're 
a sight. 

Jerry. I'm not the swift little dresser you are. 
Walter went into the bath-house and put on his 
tie and his right mind while the rest of us were 
getting our breath after the ducking. 

Ethel. But are they really all right now? 

Jim. All right till they go down with pneu- 
monia or Lee develops concussion of the brain. 
He says his head hit a stone when he went 
down. 

Jerry. Hard on the stone. 

Jim. Seems to me he acts dazed and queer 
now. 

Jerry. He always acts that way — it's his 
normal condition. 

Liz. You all take it as a joke and it might 
have been a tragedy. 

Walter. It may be yet. It's no laughing 
matter. 

Ethel. Walter, are you fooling just for the 
fun of scaring us or do you really mean it? 

Walter. No, I mean it. 

Jerry. Of course, he always means it, good 
old serious-minded Walter. 

Walter. It was a serious matter. She had 

68 



THE WEAK-END 



all she could do to get him out. He was very 
nearly drowned. 

Liz. Why didn^t you plunge in and help? 

Walter. She was managing better than any 
of us could. She is a better swimmer than I am. 
I thought I would be of more use when she got 
him to shore to help her out. She's a wonderful 
swimmer. But he! — I never saw such a scared 
man. 

Ethel. But they are all right now. 

Walter. Well, no, you can't tell. It must 
have been a nervous shock to both of them, and 
he struck his head against a stone or root. 

Jim [gloomily]. He told me he had a bad 
heart. 

Jerry. Sure he has — soft — soft as the under 
side of a cake of soap and as mushy. 

Jim. Well, I guess he's queered the party — we 
might as well all go home. 

Mrs. W^inthrop [re-entering^ smiling in ec- 
static pleasure]. After all their vicissitudes the 
little ship of love has come safely into port. It 
is finally settled. He feels that he owes his life 
to her. 

Ethel. But are they all right? Won't they 
both be sick? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, I hope not. Of course 
he will need care, but it will be her delight to 
give him that. He feels he owes his life to her 
and he is so grateful. They are both so sweet 
about it. 

Jerry. Are they actually engaged? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, yes indeed. 

69 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Jerry. Well, I always think there is many a 
skid 'twixt the car and the curb. 

Jim. How about Gwen? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, she is so happy. She 
feels that he must be taken care of and Providence 
has evidently selected her to do it. 

Jerry. Providence tried it on the dog first. 

Liz. But are they really happy? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, in the seventh Heaven! 

Jerry. Out of the deep hole into the seventh 
Heaven. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Every cloud has a silver 
lining. 

Jerry. Well, Lee has acted as if he were 
under a cloud. 

Miss Russell [running in breathless]. Liz's 
dog! — He has chased Hermione's cat into her 
room — he has got her treed on top of the tall 
secretary now — the cat, not Hermione — he 
knocked over a Brokewood vase and a lamp, 
smashed them, tore up a eiderdown quilt — 
feathers everywhere even out in the hall — I 
couldn't tell you all — the room looks like the 
wrath of God. [Ethel goes out.] 

Liz [frantically]. Oh, will anybody take us 
home? [Appealing to them.] Anybody? Right 
away? 

Mrs. Winthrop. James, perhaps it would be 
better for vou to take her now and not wait for 
the moonlight. 

Liz. Oh, all right. Fido and I might as well 
be smashed up on the road as end on the gallows. 

Jim [crossly]. Come on, then. [They start out, 

70 



THE WEAK-END 



and Miss Gottschalk enters^ carrying her cat, a 
large Angora.] 

Miss Gottschalk. I am going to Atlantic 
City. You can stay at home if you prefer, but 
this hubbub here is too much for me. I'm going 
to a quieter place. I could stand the dancing 
and telephoning — two silly creatures called up, 
perfectly unimportant, and talked for hours, I 
could stand the general disturbance and young 
men getting drowned, but the dog is too much. 
If you have succeeded in persuading any of the 
servants to stay, will you have my room straight- 
ened up a bit? It is powdered with feathers. I 
suppose I shan't be able to get off before to- 
morrow. [She sits down with her cat,] 

Mrs. Winthrop. Now don't be silly, dear! 

Miss Gottschalk. I am not silly — I am never 
silly. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Don't break things up — 

Miss Gottschalk. I never break things up. 

Mrs. Winthrop. —just as things are begin- 
ning to run smoothly. 

Miss Gottschalk. Tomasso ran smoothly. 
[Stroking her cat.] 

Mrs. Winthrop. I have sent the dog away, 
[shouting] do you hear? The dog is going home. 

Miss Gottschalk. I hope so. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Your room shall be arranged 
at once. Don't worry. 

Miss Gottschalk. I never worry. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Don't think of running away 
now when everything is coming out all right. 

Miss Gottschalk. I don't think he's out yet. 

71 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, here they come! Now 
don't make a scene! See for yourselves how happy 
they are! Congratulations are in order! 

[Lee and Gwendolyn appear y both looking pale and 
miserable. He has on a long sky-blue lady's 
bathrobe of corduroy. The others all gather 
round them and congratulate them with ''''good 
lucky old man\ ''come in^ the water s fine'\ 
"best wishes*\ "all the happiness in the world'\ 
etc. Jim singSy flatting dolefully and in a 
rough voice y "Here comes the bride.'' Lee and 
Gwendolyn accept it all nervously ^ wanly y with 
very artificial smiles.] 
Lee. But, Mrs. Winthrop, I can't wear this 
thing! [Holding up the bathrobe.] It is smother- 
ing me. 

Mrs. Winthrop. You must be kept warm, 
dear. [To the others.] It is Gwen's and [to him] 
she loves to have you wear it. 

Gwendolyn. I really don't need it in the 
least. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Now you lie down, dear, 
and rest. 
Lee. I don't need to rest. I'd rather stand. 
Mrs. Winthrop [forcing him to lie down on the 
couch]. And you sit here, dear, and calm him 
and take care of him. [Placing Gwendolyn in a 
chair by the couch.] I think you'd better be 
starting, Jimmie, if you expect to get there to- 
night. 

Jim. All right. Come on, Liz. [Jim and Liz 
go out.] 

72 



THE WEAK-END 



Jerry [io them as they go\. I'll help you find 
the dog. 

Walter. We'd better all help. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Yes, do go, all of you. Lee 
needs perfect quiet. \They all go\ Come with 
me, Hermione, and we will see to your room. 
\She takes Miss Gottschalk by the arm and leads 
her to the stairs and up.] 

Miss Gottschalk [as they go, she carrying her 
cat.] Tomasso will not be safe till that dog is 
back in town. 

[Miss Russell has remained and sidled up to the 
couch, where she stands patting the pillows, 
when Mrs. Winthrop looks back, sees her and 
stops. Miss Gottschalk goes on upstairs.] 

Mrs. Winthrop. Clara, he must be kept very 
quiet, so will you come with me, please? 

Miss Russell. Oh, I will not incite him. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Perhaps you won't intend 
to, but you know you can't keep from talking. 
He is very nervous and must be kept perfectly 
still. Any conversation will excite him. 

Miss Russell. Then why not leave him en- 
tirely alone? 

Mrs. Winthrop. Gwendolyn belongs by his 
side. They are betrothed. She is going to sit 
by him and watch him. 

Miss Russell. I can do that and retrieve her 
so she can go and join her young companions — 
I know you want your guests to have a good time 
— and I have nothing else to do. 

Mrs. Winthrop. But, Clara, your letters — 
those important — 

73 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Miss Russell. I did them all this morning — 
I hurried so I could have the afternoon free. 
Besides, he needs more mature attention. His 
wounds have not been dressed, [y^ little blood has 
oozed from Lee* s forehead where there was a small 
scratch^ 

Mrs. Winthrop. I will send a bandage for 
Gwen to apply. 

Miss Russell. You needn't — I will imply 
first aid. \She takes out two clean handkerchiefs?^ 
I always carry two in order to be able to lend one 
in case of necessity. \She knots them together^ 
Very often someone needs an extra handkerchief 
or toothbrush or something. \She begins to tie it 
about hee* s head.] 

Mrs. Winthrop. Clara, you must leave him 
alone. 

Miss Russell [almost weeping]. But I want 
so much to take care of him and Tm sure he 
doesn't object — do you? [To Lee.] 

Lee. Oh, on the contrary, I should like it so 
much. 

Miss Russell. There, you see. I knew he 
wanted me. You don't understand. We are 
absolute infirmities, he and L 

Mrs. Winthrop. Clara! 

Lee. Oh, please let her stay, Mrs. Winthrop. 
I do want her. I — I — feel I may need her. 

Miss Russell. There, you have heard his 
plea. I didn't like to make it all so pointed. 
But we both want each other. He needs me — 
needs my animadversions — he — [with caressing 
gestures about Lee^s head and shoulders,] 

74 



THE WEAK-END 



Mrs. Winthrop. Clara, come with me — I 
have work for you to do — a most important 
letter. Come! [Stern/y.] 

Miss Russell. I will go with her and do my 
duty — the duty of my position [to Mrs, Winthrop], 
but [to Lee] I will return to you — sweetheart! 
[She follows Mrs, Winthrop up the stairs, gazing 
back at Lee and throws him an impassioned kiss. 
He looks after her with an expression that might be 
construed to mean either intense trouble or intense 
longing, Lee and Gwendolyn are left alone together 
and for a few minutes they furtively glance at each 
other and then away in constrained embarrassment, 
catch each other s eye, and turn away, look troubled, 
worried, unhappy, afraid each of the other and 
terribly nervous \ 

Lee [speaking at last with deep emotion and em- 
barrassment]. It is the first time I was ever — in 
— such — er — a situation. You — you saved my 
life. 

Gwendolyn [also deeply moved and nervous]. 
Oh, I— 

Lee. You endangered your own life for such 
a worthless thing as my life! 

Gwendolyn. Oh, don't speak of your life 
that way! You mustn't ever think of com- 
mitting suicide again! 

Lee. If you knew all about me you would 
think I might as well. 

Gwendolyn [wildly]. Oh, don't talk that way 
— please, please don't! 

Lee. Honestly, for your own sake, I wish you 
wouldn't mind whatever happens to me. 

75 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Gwendolyn. Oh, please, please don't bother 
about me, but promise you won't ever try to do 
it again! 

Lee. I know what I owe you — but why you 
ever cared to save such a worthless thing as my 
hfe— 

Gwendolyn. Oh, it — it was nothing — 

[Curtain to Act IL] 



ACT IIL 

[In the same old hall. It is the afternoon of 
the next day — a blazing hot summer Sunday — 
rather late. All alone sitting in a large bamboo 
rocking-chair^ Jerry^ looking rather bored^ de- 
tached y troubled y is strumming a ukelele. He 
strums a little and at intervals hums a little 
**Dese bones shall rise again, ^* Ethel comes in 
carrying a tall glass of limeade.] 

Jerry. It's hotter than ever. "Dese bones 
shall rise again." It was as hot as hell Friday, 
hotter Saturday, hottest today. There's got to 
be a thunder storm to clear the air. 

Ethel. Indications point to a psychic storm. 

Jerry. There ought to be a ripping thunder 
storm and, by Jove, it's coming. I heard thunder 
a while ago. 

Ethel. Are you sure it wasn't Liz's dog? 
Where did you put him? 

Jerry. I've got him chained in the cow- 
stable. Ever since yesterday Hermione's cat 

76 



THE WEAK-END 



has been perching on the top of the secretary 
and nobody can get her down. She's living on a 
higher plane. It's so hot I pretty nearly don't 
blame you for drinking that stuff. Give me a sip. 

Ethel. I hate the sort of people who ask you 
for a bite or sip of something somebody else has. 
Why don't you go out and get yourself a glass? 

Jerry. I'm afraid of Maggie. Ever since I 
prevented her from braining the dog with a 
skillet I don't dare go near the kitchen, and if I 
sent she'd put poison in the lime. It's a limentable 
situation. 

Ethel. I don't know why Liz ever consented 
to let Jim try to take her back. I knew when 
they started there would be an accident. 

Jerry. Whoever rides out with Jim, has to 
walk back. Liz must have enjoyed the five- 
mile saunter. She says Jim never stopped one 
second on the way explaining just how the acci- 
dent happened. There wasn't a nut or screw or 
wire or bolt he didn't mention lovingly by name. 
Jim*s grand on post mortems. [After a moment's 
pausey he sings, ''Dese bones shall rise again*"] 

Ethel. Where is Aunt? 

Jerry. Search me. 

Ethel. Promoting, I guess. She had an idee 
fixe — in fact a whole nest of them, and she's 
counting her chickens before they're hatched. 
[After a pause.] I wonder where everybody is ? 

Jerry. Hiding, I guess. [Suddenly.] The 
trouble with this week-end is that it began on 
Friday the thirteenth. We didn't notice and 
Fate threatens. 

77 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



Ethel. She threatens and threatens like your 
thunder storm that never comes. 

Jerry. We have got a httle used to threaten- 
ing — but I tell you we needn't be so sure even yet 
that Leander won't be drowned or hanged or 
poisoned. I tell you my storm is coming and 
something is going to drop. "Dese bones shall 
rise again." 

Ethel. Maybe Clara will elope with Leander. 
That is positively the most sickening affair I ever 
knew. I do loathe a sentimental old maid. 

Jerry. I don't know — I rather like a Httle 
sentiment in women of any age. In my ac- 
quaintance it is rather rare. [With a sharp look 
at her.] It is a grumbhng old lady I can't stand 
— now Hermione gets my goat with her eternal 
grouch. I hope you will not be that sort. 

Ethel. Don't worry, Jerry, I shall be a flip- 
pant old lady. 

[Miss Russell whisks in from the back-hall and 
peers about quickly^ like a bird.] 

Jerry. Whom are you looking for, Clara? 

Miss Russell [coyly]. Oh, nobody. 

Jerry. No, now, Clara! I know whom you 
are looking for. You better look out. Aunt has 
different designs on him. And he's engaged. 

Miss Russell. Whatever may be her inter- 
jections she can't always patrol affairs of the 
heart. Sometimes an infirmity occurs that is 
wholly inexculpable. 

Jerry. Am I to infer that you and Lee are 
infirmities? 

Miss Russell [with a shrug of her shoulders and 

78 



THE WEAK-END 



a gay smile at the ceiling. Oh, you may infer 
anything you like. Besides, he needs my atten- 
tion and care. He had a high temperament last 
night. 

Jerry. What? He always seems to me sub- 
normal. 

Miss Russell. He isn't at all. I understand 
him. I know what is on his mind and heart. 
She tried to have Miss Robertson take his tem- 
perament, but he preferred to have me do it. 

Jerry. Well, another ducking might finish 
him. I guess he's more used to chickens than 
ducks. But he ought to learn to fall without 
stumbling. \Miss Gottschalk and Mrs, Winthrop 
come downstairs^ talking^ the former frowning and 
cross y the latter distraite and placating. Miss 
Russell sees them and runs out through the back-halL] 

Mrs. Winthrop [yelling at her companion]. 
You know, my dear, I couldn't help it. It was 
wholly unforeseen. How could I know that a dog 
would steal the roast? And it was so late in the 
afternoon all the butcher shops were closed. We 
couldn't get another roast anywhere. 

Miss Gottschalk [in her loud, peculiarly mod- 
ulated voice]. Canned salmon for dinner on Sun- 
day is enough to upset one's digestion for the 
entire week. 

Mrs. Winthrop. But you know, my dear, 
the dog ran off with the roast. He must have 
eaten it all or buried what he couldn't eat — there 
was not a scrap left anywhere. 

Jerry [thrumming his ukelele and humming low], 
"Dese bones shall rise again." 

79 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Miss Gottschalk. He probably devoured it 
all. He was very sick in my room afterwards. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, my dear, was he? 

Miss Gottschalk. Very sick indeed. 

Mrs. Winthrop. I wonder where all our 
guests are.^ 

Miss Gottschalk. Jerry, can't you get up a 
little game of bridge? 

Jerry. Now, Miss Hermione, how could you 
suggest such a thing? You know I never play on 
Sunday. 

Miss Gottschalk. Nonsense. 

Jerry. Besides, canned salmon on a hot Sun- 
day has a strange effect on me. I feel peculiarly 
languid — sort of watery and weak. I may fill a 
watery grave. 

Miss Gottschalk [going to the table and getting 
out a pack of cards]. It does seem peculiar that in 
a company of ten persons it is impossible to get 
up one game of bridge. I'll have a little sol- 
itaire. [She shuffles her cards^ spreads them on 
the table and begins to play.] 

Mrs. Winthrop [to Ethel and Jerry], Don't 
you know where your guests are? Haven't you 
provided for their entertainment in any way? 

Jerry. You can provide entertainment for a 
lunatic asylum, but you can't make them play. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Come, we must find them 
and make things gay. Come. [She goes ^followed 
by Ethel and Jerry.] 

Jerry [as they go]. Make a funeral gay! 

[Liz and Jim enter ^ hot and angry. He has his 
arm in a sling.] 

80 



THE WEAK-END 



Liz. I don't see why you follow me around. 

Jim. I am not following you around. I don't 
want you to misunderstand my intentions in the 
least. Please don't think I'm trying to force my 
unwelcome attentions upon you. 

Liz. It is a relief to know that. 

Jim. My Lord, I reckon you thought I was 
all stuck-up on you! 

Liz. I'll do you the justice to say I never did 
think that. 

Jim. Oh, thank you so much! I was afraid 
you thought I was such a rotten dog-goned senti- 
mental idiot I just couldn't keep away from the 
fire. I'll have you to know I'm not the kind of 
man who makes a fool of himself trailing round 
after a girl unless she's given him some encour- 
agement. I may be some kinds of a fool, but I'm 
not that kind. I don't come hither unless I've 
had the come-hither invitation. 

Liz. My word! Do you rrbean to imply that 
I've been vamping you? 

Jim. Oh, there you go, mad again. Every- 
body always gets mad at me. 

Liz. I never vamped in my life — I hate it — 
I despise the style of butterfly that does it. The 
idea of your accusing me of it, James Doolittle! 
If I were a man I'd knock you down — I have a 
great jtiotion to anyway. 

Jim. I ain't accusing you of anything — it's 
you that's accusing me. I only wanted to try to 
explain — to put myself straight with you. 

Liz. You've done nothing but try to explain — 

* 8i 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

and anybody that's as round as you are couldn't 
possibly be straight. 

Jim. I don't know what's the matter with my 
car. She's been behaving something awful ever 
since I drove her out. But she was going all right 
when it happened. She was going like a bird, 
going uphill like a skylark — 

Liz. My word, do I have to listen to all that 
again ? 

Jim. — going like a top, when that infernal 
dog of yours — 

Liz. Don't you say a word against *Fido — 

Jim. You let him fall down into the brakes, 
and, while a Ford is roomy, you can't carry a cow 
down among the pedals — 

Liz. It was all your own fault! 

Jim. He's a cow — 

Liz. You pinched him! 

Jim. He's a coward — 

Liz. You wanted to kill him! 

Jim. I did, but I didn't try to, I was trying to 
shift to low and his legs got all tangled up in the 
pedals, he howled bloody murder and you tried 
to haul him out, I couldn't manage the brakes 
and something got the matter with the clutch, 
the steering-gear — 

Liz. I will not listen to all this again! 

Jim. Wait a minute. So we ran down into the 
ditch and up the other side, through a barbed- 
wire fence and didn't stop till we hit the tree and 
were all spilled out. Broke the lamps and fender, 
wrecked the whole car. 

Liz. Didn't you have it insured? 

82 



THE WEAK-END 



Jim. Of course, but no self-respecting company 
will pay insurance to anybody that would take a 
man-eating elephant to ride in his car. 

Liz. I won't have you talk that way about 
my dog! The whole accident was all your fault 
and not a bit of his. You did it all. 

Jim. There you go, blaming me. I wouldn't 
so much mind the smash-up if I didn't get so 
infernally blamed for it. As if Td go to work 
and break up my car on purpose. I might as 
well stay at home and use an ax on her and not 
run the risk of breaking my own neck, too, — or 
maybe you think I wanted to commit suicide 
and was lonesome for the company of a dog on 
my way to heaven. 

Liz. Well, well, well, think of Jimmie becom- 
ing sarcastic! 

Jim. It's enough to make St. Peter sarcastic. 
A chap tries to do a girl and a whole bunch of 
people a good turn and gets smashed up for it 
by a fool dog, and the girl turns in and won't 
speak to him and tells the story so it looks as if 
it was all his fault and everybody goes and blames 
him! And makes fun of him! 

Liz. Is it the first time in your life you were 
ever made fun of? 

Jim. Oh, that's right, go right on — keep it up! 
I know what everybody says, and it's all your 
doing! But just let them try driving that con- 
founded dog. Everybody's talking like greased 
lightning. 

Liz [apprehensively\. There is going to be a 
storm. 

83 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Jim. There is. The sooner the better. Or 
maybe you think it wasn't premeditated foxiness 
on my part to ditch you — maybe you think I'm 
just a poor simp that can't steer a car! I may be 
a bonehead, but I'm not as bad as all that. I 
came out here all right with no dog and a different 
kind of girl. My arms and legs are all lamed up 
so I doubt if I can drive a car again for weeks, if 
ever. 

Liz. You did your best to kill me. 

Jim. I just managed to save you from being 
killed. And then to be treated like this! I call 
it rather a shame to treat a man this way — I 
ain't an ass. 

Liz. I won't listen to you any longer. You 
talk like an illiterate idiot! 

Jim. It's a dog-goned rotten shame. You 
insult me all the time. 

Liz. I don't care enough about you to insult 
you. 

Jim. I want you to understand I'm not in 
love with you and never was. 

Liz. That's the only thing I have to thank 
you for. But I do wish you wouldn't keep going 
to Mrs. Winthrop and telling her how much you 
are in love with me. It's not a joke — if you are 
silly enough to think it is. 

Jim. I never did. 

Liz. You did. 

Jim. I didn't. 

Liz. You did — time and again — she told me so. 

Jim. I did not. 

Liz. You needn't deny it. 

84 



THE WEAK-END 



Jim. I didn't and I wish you wouldn't do the 
same thing about me — telling her how sweet I am. 

Liz. I? Never! Oh, you are being funny! 

Jim. It's you that's being funny — dog-goned 
funny! 

Liz. This is too much! I'll never speak to you 
again! [She goes out. Jim ejaculates ''Damn.'' 
Miss Gotts chalk looks up and sees him.] 

Miss GoTTSCHALK. Don't you try your philan- 
dering with me again, James Doolittle. 

[Jim ejaculates ''Damn'^ again and hurries out 
into the drawing-room. In a moment Walter 
and Ange enter. Miss Gotts chalk does not 
see them.] 

Walter. It is the first time in my life I have 
ever been accused of doing anything ungentle- 
manly. 

Ange. That is exactly the trouble with you, 
Mr. Walter Harkness, you are so sure of your 
wonderful good-breeding that it never occurs to 
you you can make a false step. 

Walter. And you are so sure of people mak- 
ing allowances for your clever tongue that it 
never occurs to you someone may object to your 
indiscriminate slashing right and left, cutting 
into people, giving wrong impressions. 

Ange. You have come to regard yourself as 
impeccable. Your attitude to yourself is *'the 
king can do no wrong." Your devotion to your- 
self is quite beautiful. 

Walter. I have never been criticised before, 
and on my honor as a gentleman I don't consider 
it necessary to bear your insinuations. 

85 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



Ange. Far be it from me to insinuate — I am 
not so clever. I am merely stating facts. 

Walter. You call it a fact, do you? That I 
said what I tell you I didn't say? 

Ange. I have no reason to believe you didn't 

say it. 

Walter. You accuse me of lying, too, then? 
Well, by Jove, this is too much. To accuse me 
first of making ungentlemanly insinuations and 
then of lying to clear myself. Why shouldn't you 
believe me? Have you ever caught me in a lie? 

Ange. I suppose before you have been too 
clever to be found out. Heaven knows what 
stories you have been telling about me or all the 
other girls being in love with you. Doubtless 
you think you are such a heart-smasher that 
youVe been going around boasting of your con- 
quests to all the old ladies in town. 

Walter. You might give me the benefit of 
the doubt. 

Ange. Why should I prefer your word to Mrs. 
Winthrop's? She has no object in boasting of 
your charms — telling me how handsome you are 
and a long list of your virtues and your statement 
that your mother had picked out a girl with hazel 
eyes for you, and you couldn't help knowing 
whose they were because mine are always on you. 
Oh! 

Walter. Tm not responsible for what my 
mother says — if she ever said it, which I don't 
believe for an instant. 

Ange. But what you yourself said was worse 
— that you knew and everybody knows that I am 

86 



THE WEAK-END 



absolutely cr— orazy about you. It wouldn't 
have mattered so much if you had said it only 
to the other boys— men are all conceited and 
catty and think girls are in love with them and 
talk about it to each other— but for you to tell 
Mrs. Winthrop! Oh, it is absolutely unspeak- 
ably low! 

Walter \hotly\ I tell you I did not do it! 

Ange. Oh, deny it all you want, but you can't 
prove you didn't. Mrs. Winthrop says they are 
all talking about it— about my love-lorn state. 

Walter. You use picturesque words. She 
didn't put it that way, surely? 

Ange. You needn't split hairs— that was her 

meaning. 

Walter {sarcastically^ If I split hairs, you 
embroider all over till you cover the pattern. 

Ange. Oh, your cavilling analysis! Instead of 
arguing with me it is obviously up to you to 
apologise to me and explain before each one of 
them separately. 

Walter. I don't see it. 

Ange. That would be too great a downfall 
to your beautiful pride, wouldn't it? 

Walter. Why shouldn't you do the same for 
me, then? For the matter of that, I have a Uttle 
crow to pick with you on my own account. 

Ange. I have no doubt you are self-righteous 
enough to have a dozen. 

Walter. Why should you tell Mrs. Winthrop 
that I am head over heels in love with you? 

Ange. I did nothing of the sort. 

87 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Walter. She told me so. Naturally, I be- 
lieve her. 

Ange. Why shouldn't you believe me? 

Walter. For the simple reason that Mrs. 
Winthrop would have no reason for starting such 
an absurd story. 

Ange \hotly\. Oh, of course, accuse me of lying, 
accuse me of being a perfect little cat! It's like 
you, like your Beau Brummel chivalry — 

Walter. I don't care about the fellows — they 
all know me — but to have Mrs. Winthrop think 
I am madly in love with you places me in an 
awkward position — especially in regard to the 
other girls. 

Ange. You don't want your chances spoiled 
with them? 

Walter. I should be grateful to you if you 
would deny that I am in love with you. 

Ange. Do your own denying! Apologise and 
explain what you've told about me first, oh, you 
first gentleman of Ohio! 

Walter. This is absolutely impossible! Ange, 
I am constrained to tell you that if you were a 
man, I should be compelled to knock you down. 
\He turns on his heel toward the door to the porch.] 

Ange. And I am constrained to tell you that 
if I were a man I should have slapped your face 
long ago. Oh, you — you cur! [She bursts into 
tears and runs out through the door into the drawing- 
room as he goes out to the porch. Miss Russell and 
Lee enter from the back-hall ^ she radiant ^ he mel- 
ancholy and absorbed^ but with an air of clinging 
to her,] 

88 



THE WEAK-END 



Miss Russell. I shall never forget this Httle 
walk with you under the trees with the breeze in 
the overhanging branches breathing its blessing 
over our heads. When can we have another? 

Lee. I hope next year — I mean very soon. 
I want you to be with me a great deal. You are 
my only hope. 

Miss Russell. Oh, my prince! I wonder if 
this little walk could have been prolific? That 
it may mean other lovely things to come? Do 
you know, I adore everything connected with 
weddings — all the little doings and superscrip- 
tions. I particularly dote on the charming little 
custom of throwing spaghetti over the happy 
pair. [With a gay smile she looks up at Lee^ who 
gazes at her with knit brows\ But now I must 
write some more letters for her — perhaps you 
could help me? 

Lee. I might as well. I feel safe with 
you. 

Miss Russell \as they go upstairs]. I shall 
never to my dying day forget this first walk — 
the rosy sunshine — the happy singing birds — 
[They disappear and Ethel and Jerry come in from 
the back-halL] 

Jerry. As soon as this delightful week-end 
party is over, I've got to get away from here. 
If I stay. Aunt will make a match between you 
and me in spite of all I can do. 

Ethel. I will aid and abet you both in regard 
to preventing the match and your going away. 

Jerry. You'd like to get rid of me, wouldn't 
you? 



89 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



Ethel. Very much. But I'd like still better 
to get away myself. 

Jerry. We might elope. 

Ethel. We might. [After the briefest pause.] 
We might also take poison or shoot ourselves. 

Jerry. If we stay here I don't know what may 
happen. She'll marry us to each other in spite 
of ourselves. 

Ethel. Jerry, you have no more self-deter- 
mination than an oyster. I honestly believe you 
would sit right down and let Aunt marry you to 
me. I can tell you, you make it mighty hard for 
me — why don't you fight it? Why don't you act 
the man's part, why don't you put your foot 
down on it, why don't you make her understand 
once for all thait you detest the very sight of me, 
that we are about as well suited to each other as 
a goat and a hippopotamus, that I am too old 
for you, that a match with me would spoil all 
your chances for life? 

Jerry [acidly]. Why don't I? 

Ethel. Why don't you make it plain and 
unobscure and open and clear and downright and 
undeniable and fixed that you loathe me and I 
abhor you, that we quarrel incessantly, that a 
match between us would be unnatural, abnormal, 
unpsychological, disgusting, that we would prob- 
ably end by murdering each other? Be a man, or 
at least pretend you are a man, make yourself 
dominating, be master of the situation, tell her 
a man must choose his own mate, tell her you are 
already in love with someone else, tell her you are 
engaged, tell her you are going to do as you damn 

90 



THE WEAK-END 



please, tell her it's none of her business, make it 
flat, make it clear, make it unequivocal! 

Jerry. By gum, but you can talk when you 
want to! I never knew you to say so much in 
my life. I didn't know you had so many words 
in your head. The four-minute men aren't in it 
with you. You'll be in the Senate next — the lady 
from Ohio! Jove, you've said a mouthful! 

Ethel. I haven't said half as much as I think, 
Gervaise Houghton! 

Jerry. Gosh, has it come to my full ancestral, 
baptismal, abysmal name? 

Ethel [stamping her foot]. Don't use that dis- 
gusting word! 

Jerry. Gosh is dehghtful, a pet lamb of a 
word, reminding me of Miss Gottschalk. 

Ethel [giving him a long look of hoty blighting 
anger], I think I'll never speak to you again. 
Not till you can talk and act like a man. 

Jerry. You know, Ethel, you're almost dev- 
ilishly handsome when you're mad — satanic 
enough to make a worm sit up and think. 

Ethel. Oh! [She turns in a fury to go and 
ferry turns also to go^ the one to the porch, the 
other to the drawing-room, when Mrs, JVinthrop 
and Gwendolyn trailing after her come down the 
stairs. The older lady is delicately holding up her 
skirt, though it is short — Gwendolyn does not touch 
hers.] 

Jerry. You can tell the age of a woman now- 
adays by the way she manages her skirt. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Where are you two running 
away to ? And where are the others ? 

91 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Jerry [diving into the drawing-room]. Well, 
two of them are in here. 

Ethel [from just outside on the porch]. Well, 
two of them are out here. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Bring them in. 

[Jerry y Ange, and Jim come in from the drawing- 
roomy Ethely Walter ^ and Liz from the porch.] 

Jerry. Here are some of the culprits. 

Mrs. Winthrop. On so lovely an afternoon 
we ought to be doing something gay. What shall 
we do? [Beaming.] We will have to plan — 
charades } 

Jerry. Aunt, I think youVe planned till 
we're almost planted. Also, IVe discovered if 
you plant a plan chaos comes up. 

Liz. Jerry, you're getting to be what the 
English call a wag. 

Jerry. Liz, you associate so much with Fido 
your ideas have become dogmatic. But I could 
tell you a different tail! 

Liz. You're a sad dog. 

Mrs. Winthrop. W^hat shall we do? 

[Miss Russell and Leander enter from the porch. 
He wears the blue bathrobe again \ 

Jerry. Let's go for a swim. 

Miss Russell. Oh, no, no, don't mention 
swimming before Mr. Lee! 

Jerry. Well, we've got to do something. If 
we don't, something's going to happen. 

Ange. Jerry, since when did you become clair- 
voyant? I didn't know you had the gift of 
second sight. 

Jerry. Oh, you needn't josh. I tell you, 

92 



THE WEAK-END 



something awful is going to happen. IVe felt 
it in the air all day. Let's dance. Let's be merry, 
for tomorrow we die. [He goes to the victrola and 
puts on a wild jazz dance. Then he moves the 
chairs^ Jim and Walter helping him rather sombrely, 
Jerry seizes Liz and whirls her off, Walter dances 
with Ethely Jim with Ange, and Lee with Miss 
Russelly who puts herself in his way smiling truc- 
ulently up at him — she can scarcely dance the new 
style, steps on his toes, and they almost fall down 
several times. Gwendolyn stands behind Mrs, 
Winthrop, who surveys the scene askance, the young 
people not being paired of to suit her. The dancers 
bump into each other, owing to the awkwardness of 
Miss Russell, who bumps into all of them, and 
even more often into Miss Gottschalk, who frowns 
over her solitaire but goes on playing. Mrs. Win- 
throp watches the dancing for a few minutes, but 
finally can bear the wrong partnerships no longer, 
and going to the victrola turns it off right in the 
middle of its howling tune. The effect is of one 
having his throat cut right in the midst of lusty life. 
The dancers fall apart and look surprised.] 

Jerry. But, Aunt, why did you stop it? We 
want to dance. 

Mrs. Winthrop. My dear, I don't in the least 
object to your dancing, I love young people to 
have a merry time, even if it is on the Sabbath 
Day. I'm no Puritan, I'm from Virginia, but I 
have ears! I can't stand that horrible screeching 
rag-time. Put on some pretty old-fashioned tune. 

Jerry. But we haven't got one — we all dance 
rag — we like it. 

93 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Miss Gottschalk [meditatively]. In my day 
young people danced like ladies and gentlemen, 
nowadays they dance like vertical hoptoads. 

Mrs. Winthrop [hunting among the records]. 
There must be something pretty. Try this one. 

Jerry. That*s rag, too. 

Mrs. Winthrop. It is better. Sweeter. Try it. 

Jerry [wiping the perspiration from his fore- 
head and tossing back his hair]. When you dance 
in winter you look like a feather duster, in the 
summer you look like a floor mop. [lie puts the 
record on.] 

Mrs. Winthrop [to Jerry]. Dance with Ethel 
this time and don't let everything get mixed up 
again. [She takes Walter to Ange\ Ange, Walter 
is longing to dance with you. 

Ange. I hardly think so. 

Mrs. Winthrop. Yes, he does. You must 
dance together, as I say! [Smiling^ with her 
finger up. At their hostess" behest they dance^ but 
with compressed lips. She goes to Jim^ leading 
Liz with her.] Jimmie, Liz is dying to dance 
with you. 

Jim. She'll die before she does, I guess. 

Mrs. Winthrop. There, there, I'll have no 
more lovers' quarrels in my house, no more un- 
happiness! You two are to dance together. 
[Thus compelled y they dance y Jim with a look of 
gloomy and maltreated innocence, his arm still in a 
sling, he clasps his partner loosely, Liz with a 
Mona Lisa smile. Jerry seizes Ethel, who, taken 
off her guard, dances with impenetrable calm and 

94 



THE WEAK-END 



coldness. Mrs. Winthrop takes Lee's arm — he has 
been standing with Miss Russell loath to venture 
his life again with her into the light fantastic^ while 
she ecstatically smiles up at him^ — and leads him 
to Gwendolyn^ Here is a gay young Lothario 
longing frantically to dance with you. \lVith a 
look at each other as if meeting a black and im- 
placable fatCy they dance.] No more misunder- 
standing now! But sunshine and joy! 

[Just then a roar of thunder is heard and as it 
rolls off the dashing of rain is heard. The 
dancing continues. The couples bump into 
Miss Gotts chalky jogging her elbow until finally 
with a dark frown she gathers up her cards and 
goes, Walter and Ange dance into the back- 
hally where there is more room and Lee and 
Gwendolyn follow them. The thunder roars 
often and the wind and dashing rain are heard. 
Walter and Ange dance back again^ leaving 
Lee and Gwendolyn alone in the rear hall. 
Amid the thunder which becomes almost con- 
tinuouSy the music from the victrola^ a par- 
ticularly reprehensible rag with diabolically reg- 
ulated jerks and shrieks and poundings^ the 
wind and the sound of torrents of rain, the 
honk of an automobile is heard ^ followed by 
another honky as if it were the answering call 
of its mate. In a few minutes amid a great 
roar of thunder a strange young man and girl 
in traveling suits and dripping with rain, 
burst in through the front door. The dancers 
fall apart in consternation, all except Lee and 

95 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Gwendolyn^ whoy oblivious to what is occurring^ 
are seen slowly jazzing in melancholy dejec- 
tion and blue bathrobe?^ 
Alan \standing at the door and shouting. May 
I speak to Mrs. Winthrop? Which is Mrs. Win- 
throp? [Looking from Miss Russell to Miss 
Gottschalk.] 

Miss Russell. Oh, dear no, you are laboring 
under a collusion. This is Mrs. Winthrop. [Ges- 
turing elaborately to the lady.] 

Alan. Pardon me, Mrs. Winthrop. Where is 
Miss Robertson? 

Sallie [also standing at the door and shouting]. 
Where is Mr. Lee? 

[Mrs. Winthrop starts as though her fate were 
upon her. The others all drop back so that the 
melancholy dancers are in full view except to 
the newcomers on the side. The victrola con- 
tinues to grind out its blatant tune. Jerry goes 
to it and stops it suddenly^ giving the effect 
again^ in sounds of life cut short.] 
Mrs. Winthrop. Who are you? 
Alan [looking about at the astonished company]. 
Where is my wife? I demand my wife! 
Mrs. Winthrop [faintly]. Your wife? 
Alan. She will be in a month. I am Alan 
Davis and Miss Robertson is engaged to be 
married to me. She must have told you. 

Mrs. Winthrop. But she is engaged to Mr. 
Lee. 

Alan. She cannot be. 

[The newcomers take a few steps forward ^ the 
others move^ so that Lee and Gwendolyn be- 

96 



THE WEAK-END 



come visible to Alan and Sallie, they are still 
dancing and the house-party stands watching 
them with back to the audience.] 
Sallie. It is true! My worst suspicions are 
true! 

[Lee and Gwendolyn realising something is going 
ony stop^ slowly separate^ turn about and see 
their newly arrived fiances. There is a mixture 
of amazementy pleasure^ and fright on their 
faces and they slowly, not to say reluctantly, 
diffidently, make their way into the front hall 
to the others. For a moment they stand help- 
lessly gazing^ 
Mrs. Winthrop \in her suavest voice], I don^t 
know who you are or why you have walked into 
my house so abruptly, but these two young people 
are engaged to each other and you must not 
make a scene. 

Alan '[wildly], A scene! Isn't this a scene? 
Gwendolyn, what does this signify? 

Sallie. Leander, come here! [He somewhat 
hesitatingly goes a few steps towards her and halts \ 
Leander, do you mean to say you haven^t told 
them? 
Lee. Ah, told them? Told them — what? 
Sallie. What? As if you needed to ask! 
Leander Lee, you know perfectly well what I 
mean. Did you tell them? 

Lee. I — er — well — er — no. I — you see it 
wasn't necessary. 

Sallie. It was necessary. Leander, come 
right here to me. \He goes to her, she seizes him 
7 97 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



by the blue bathrobe and looks straight into his eyes.] 
Now tell them. 

Lee. But, my dear, so publicly? You wouldn't 
have me — 

Sallie. Yes, I would. Go on. {Lee hesitates,] 
Go on. 

Lee [turning to the others while she holds him by 
the back of the blue bathrobe]. Well — er — Sallie and 
I — Sallie and I were — 

Sallie. Were? 

Lee [hastily]. Sallie and I are — 

Sallie. Are what? 

Lee. Sallie and I are engaged. [Smiles faintly.] 
I hope you don't mind. 

Alan [sternly], Gwendolyn! [She takes a few 
steps towards him and halts, looking terrified by his 
stern aspect.] Gwendolyn, what Mrs. Winthrop 
has just declared needs an explanation. 

Sallie. It does, Leander. What has been 
happening? Will you please explain? 

Lee [weakly]. Oh, nothing has happened — oh, 
nothing at all — not in the least — there isn't any- 
thing to explain. 

Alan. Gwendolyn, I demand an explanation. 

Gwendolyn. Oh, there isn't anything to ex- 
plain — anything at all — there isn't anything the 
matter — anything at all. We were just dancing, 
you know. You saw us — just dancing. 

Alan. No judge would be satisfied with such 
an answer. 

Gwendolyn [almost weeping]. Oh, Alan, you 
lawyers are so exact. 

98 



THE WEAK-END 



Alan. Exact! Here I have come all the way 
from Chicago, about four hundred miles, because 
of my anxiety and you will not satisfy me. Ex- 
act, you call me — exacting is what you mean, 
I suppose, you use words so carelessly. Do you 
know why I came? Because you, my affianced 
wife, were flirting with other men or one other 
man, which is worse. When I call up over the 
Long Distance someone — a drunken or crazy old 
woman — answers and tells me there are ''high 
jinks" going on here — those were her words, 
"high jinks" — that my fiancee is carrying on out- 
rageously with other men — or with another man, 
which is worse — 

Sal LIE {breaking in]. And I, Leander, had the 
same experience. When I called up yesterday 
over the Long Distance it must have been some 
impertinent, lazy, deaf old servant who answered 
and would give me no satisfaction and wouldn't 
call you, but told me there were high jinks going 
on here and you were off somewhere spooning 
with a girl — that was exactly what she said, 
"spooning with a girl"! That is why I came 
about four hundred desperate, anxious miles from 
Richmond, Virginia. 

Alan. So I took the next train. 

Sallie. So did L 

Alan. Our trains arrived at the same time 
and I met this young lady in the station, where 
we were both trying to hire a taxi to come out 
here, and we discovered we were bound for the 
same place and on similar errands, and came out 
here in this terrific storm — 

99 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



Sallie. In two streaming taxis without chains, 
one right after the other. 

Alan. Like a funeral procession — 

Sallie. It was a funeral procession — it felt 

like one. 

Alan. And when we arrive, what do we find? 

Sallie. Yes, what do we find? 

Lee. Oh, nothing, nothing. 

Sallie. Nothing? Leander, you were dancing 
with her — and how? 

Lee. Oh, one dances with anyone that way 
this year — it doesn't mean any more than a 
fashion-plate in a magazine. 

Sallie. But you were dancing with her and 
not one of the others. 

Lee. I couldn't help it — it wasn't my fault. 

Sallie. And in that — that — negligee! [Look- 
ing pointedly at the bathrobe^ 

Lee. It really wasn't my fault. 

Gwendolyn [beginning to weep]. Oh, it wasn*t 
mine — you know it wasn't! 

Lee [almost weeping, too]. Well, you made me 
think — or at least, Mrs. Winthrop made me 
think — that you — that you — 

Gwendolyn. That I? Why, it was you! 
She told me you were crazy about me — that — 

Lee. She told me that you were madly in love 
with me — 

Gwendolyn. I — oh — 

Lee [with a break in his voice]. She said I had 
to marry you because you saved my life. 

Gwendolyn [sobbing violently]. She told me 
you would commit suicide if I didn't marry you. 

lOO 



THE WEAK -END 



Alan [scornfully and ungrammatically^ Com- 
mit suicide! Him! 

Sallie {relinquishing her hold on the blue bath- 
robe], Leander, you may take her if you want. 

Lee. I don't want her. 

Alan [with magnificent scorn], Gwendolyn, you 
are free! 

Gwendolyn. I don't want to be free. 

Lee [in high-pitched masculine hysterics], Mrs. 
Winthrop, see what you have done! 

Gwendolyn [in high-pitched feminine hysterics]. 
Oh, see what you have done! 

Mrs. Winthrop [bursting into tears]. Is this 
the end of my self-sacrifice? Is this the way all 
my kindness is rewarded? All my efforts to make 
others happy? 

Lee. We were happy, if you had let us alone. 

Mrs. Winthrop. You to say that! You to 
be the first to reproach me! 

Gwendolyn. Oh, you have made everybody 
wretchedly unhappy. 

Mrs. Winthrop. The ingratitude of youth! 

Sallie. You are a meddlesome old cat! 

Mrs. Winthrop. Oh, you impertinent little 
hussy! 

Alan [very cocky ^ furious^ but judicious]. She 
has put it most unfortunately, most rawly. I 
regret the circumstances most deeply, but never- 
theless what she says is true, madam. By your 
animadversions and misrepresentations you have 
very apparently put us all in a completely false 
position — a position from which heaven knows 
how we can be extricated. 

I ox 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



Mrs. Winthrop. I am sorry it is necessary 
to suggest it, but you can all extricate yourselves 
from my house! You are an impertinent, rude, 
impudent, shameless, brazen-faced young pack! 
I never want to hear or see any of you ever again 
or any young people. In my day young ladies 
and gentlemen were brought up differently — they 
never talked this way to their elders — You have 
treated me outrageously! It is a disgrace, a 
shame, an infamy! Oh! Oh! Oh! [She starts to 
go y furious and weeping.] 

Alan [as she goes]. It is all your own fault. 

Sallie. You meddled with other people's 
business. 

Alan. You attempted to wreck the happiness 
of a pure young girl. 

Sallie. You tried to entangle a chivalrous 
young man. 

Alan. It is almost a case of blackmail. 

Sallie. It is atrocious. 

[Mrs. Winthrop goes out sobbing and hysterical 
up the stairs \ 

Jerry. Look here, you know I don't want to 
seem rude in my own house and all that — for it 
is just the same as my own house [becoming dig- 
nified and masterful], but I feel obliged to tell 
you what I think of you. I think you've all acted 
like a set of damn fools and mean ones at that. 
You, Mr. Alan Davis, are a cur. If I had a girl 
engaged to me and couldn't trust her I wouldn't 
blame anyone else. And as for my old friend, 
Lee, you've acted like a cad. I don't want to 
criticise a lady, but you, Miss Robertson, have 

1 02 



THE WEAK-END 



been about as spineless as a jelly-fish, and I 
should say Miss Sallie Carter is a tartar. I want 
to say I won't stand having Aunt insulted. She 
may have been foolish and made mistakes, but 
she meant no harm — she was doing what she 
thought was for your happiness, Gwen and Lee. 
It's up to you all to write and apologise to her. 
I hope IVe made my meaning clear. I am here 
to wish you all four goodbye and hope that you 
will have all the torments that are by rights com- 
ing to you. If your taxis aren't rain-proof, I'll 
be glad to send you all back together in our 
limousine — at once. [Ethel watches him intently 
as he delivers himself of this speech and then goes 
upstairs after Mrs. JVinthrop.] 

Alan [sternly]. Gwendolyn, come! 

Gwendolyn. My things? 

Alan. Get them. Hurry. [She runs out of 
the room.] 

Sallie. Leander, you come along with me. 
You can't wear that private theatricals property 
[looking at the bathrobe] — get your coat and hat. 
[He goes.] 

Jerry. It is hardly fit for a rainy day. 

Ange. I don't know how the rest of you feel 
about it, but I feel sort of de trop. 

Walter. We'd better all go home. How about 
it, Lizzie? 

Liz. Fm ready. I didn't bring anything but 
a toothbrush and Fido. You won't mind him. I 
guess we'd better tell you, though, before we go 
that out there on the porch just now I promised 
Walter to marry him. 

103 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Jerry. Well, for the love o' Mike! 
Lee [re-appearingy coat on^ hat in hand]. I 
didn't take time to pack — could you — would you 
be so kind as to send me my suit-case? [To 
Jerry], 

Jerry. Fd send you anything, old man, to 
get rid of you. 

[Sallie takes Lee by the arm^ and without looking 
back he says goodbye and they hurry out. Miss 
Russell bursts into violent tears and shrieking 
and turns and runs out through the back-hall.] 
Liz. Come, Walter, we must find Fido — 
Jerry. He's locked in the cow-house. 
Liz. — and go. 

Ange. Jimmie, I think we ought to tell them, 
too. 

Jim [nearly bursting with heat^ confusion^ and 
pride]. Well, you may as well know before we go 
that in the drawing-room there just now Ange 
promised to marry me. 

Jerry. Well, for the love o* Mike! 
[Gwendolyn appears with her suit-case ^ which 
Alan gallantly takes from her. She fugitively 
whispers goodbye^ and Alan in his grand 
manner lifts his hat as they go out.] 
Ange. We'll come for my things tomorrow. 
1 can't bear to face her now. 
Liz. Come on. 
[Walter takes Lizs arm and they go. Ange takes 

Jimmie* s arm and they go?[ 
Jerry. W^ell, for the love o' Mike! [He sticks 
his hands into his pockets and stands staring^ 
finally picks up his ukelele and hums *'Dese bones 

1 04 



THE WEAK-END 



shall rise again.'' Ethel comes in carrying a tall 
glass of limeade and drops on a divan weariedly 
and nervously,] 

Jerry. Well, the storm seems to be over. 
[Thunder is heard in the distance.] 

Ethel. Jimminy! My hand shakes so I am 
almost spilling it. 

Jerry. Well? 

Ethel. Oh, it's all right. She's gone to inter- 
view the cook about putting up fruit tomorrow. 
She's crying still — a little. It is some disappoint- 
ment and humiliation, but mostly temper. I'm 
sorry to say it of Aunt, but it is mostly temper. 

Jerry. But it's kind of hard on Aunt. 

Ethel. It's been hard on all of us. 

Jerry. Harder on you than you pretended. 

Ethel. Have they all gone? 

Jerry. The whole bunch. And Vm glad of it. 

Ethel [smiling]. Are you, Jerry? So am I. 

Jerry. I'm glad we are alone again. 

Ethel. Are you, Jerry? So am I. But I 
thought you liked a lot of people around? 

Jerry. I don't. I like just one person around 
— worse fool me! I suppose you wish I'd go. 

Ethel. Oh, no, I am rather exhausted. Your 
— your prattle amuses me. You see I am used to 
vou. 

Jerry. I didn't know you ever got exhausted. 

Ethel. There are a good many things you 
don't know about me. A good many things you 
haven't seen. If one lives too close to a person 
one doesn't see things unless one naturally has 
abnormal eyes. 

105 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Jerry. Too close? Well, Fd take the risk. 
I never see anything anyhow. Vm nothing but 
a blind puppy. Sometimes I feel things coming — 
like the storm today, the thunder storm and the 
psychic upheaval — I knew something was in the 
air — too heavy — something was going to bust. 

Ethel [suddenly]. Jerry, you were magnificent! 

Jerry. Gee, I? What, when, how? 

Ethel. When you defended Aunt — when you 
came to her support and spoke right out from the 
shoulder. You were manly and fine and straight 
and to the point and strong. You were superb! 

Jerry. My God, Ethel! You must be talk- 
ing to somebody else, not me! 

Ethel. I always knew you had it in you and 
I always wanted you to assert yourself, and at 
last you have. You were perfectly splendid! 

Jerry. Ethel, you darling! Are you quite 
sure you are talking about me? 

Ethel. Oh, quite. I never admired anyone 
so much in my fife. 

Jerry. Oh, you sweetheart! Ethel, I adore 
you! 

Ethel. No, you don't, Jerry. You have al- 
ways detested me. 

Jerry. I have always been in love with you 
ever since I can remember, but I never dared 
mention it because you have always been a walk- 
ing iceberg to me. 

Ethel. Oh, Jerry! 

Jerry. Do you think you won't freeze up 
again to me and stop the pipes of my emotions ? 

Ethel [wUh a deep sigh]. Oh, Jerry! 

1 06 



THE WEAK-END 



Jerry. Oh, you love! [He steps towards her 
and is about to embrace her when Miss Gottschalk 
enters.] 

Miss Gottschalk [looking about]. Where are 
they all? 

Jerry [shouting]. Not here. Only us — Ethel 
and me. 

Miss Gottschalk. Has anything happened? 

Jerry. Very much. 

Miss Gottschalk. Did those young fools 
come, perchance? Those two who were tele- 
phoned to in the presence of the stupid stone-deaf 
old woman. Oh, perhaps I made them a little 
uneasy later when I talked to them. Have they 
all gone? 

Jerry. Yes, they've all gone — all — gone — 
home! 

Miss Gottschalk. All? 

Jerry. All! 

Miss Gottschalk. Home? 

Jerry. Home, James! 

Miss Gottschalk. That's good. Perhaps we 
can get off to Atlantic City now. 

Jerry. You'd better go find Helen and pro- 
pose it. 

Miss Gottschalk. I will. [She goes.] 

Jerry [after a brief intent moment of watching 
her safe out of sight]. Ethel, do you think you 
could arrange to marry me tomorrow? I feel 
awfullv restless and nervous and run down — I'd 
like so awfully to go off on a honeymoon. [He 
kisses her as the curtain falls.] 

[Curtain to Act III and to the Play.] 

107 



THE STORM. 
A Farce With a Vision. 



MoLLiE Barton, 
Clementine Garth, 



CHARACTERS AS THEY APPEAR: 

Slightly diferentiated, the 
one by a sharper tongue^ 
the other by a more pa- 
tient heart. Perfectly ca- 
pable of doing a day^s 
washings but devoting 
their energies to society 
and charity and living 
upon the bounty of their 
fashionable friends. 
Maid. 

Miss Watson, a thin^ sallow person in mournings 
boasting bereavements^ a weak stomachy and per- 
verse appetite, 
Mrs. Addison, a sweety fat old lady devoted to duty 
which the dead-and-gone male members of her 
family patently neglected, 
Mrs. Steimer, a plump blonde with an absence of 

sensitiveness, 
Mrs. Smyth e, a thin^ elderly ^ willowy widow ^ with 

a bubbling optimism. 
Miss Ho l worthy, healthy ^ hard^ and with a fixed 
belief that you can pluck figs from thistles if you 
try hard enough. 
Mrs. Draho, smally and busy on her ladder^ con- 
scious that her husband's factory is more pro- 

io8 



THE STORM 



ductive than a family tree, French poets have not 

yet dawned on her horizon^ but her limousine 

always carries a bouquet, 
Mrs. Lawrence, with a willingness to attempt 

anything that may counteract her tendency to 

obesity. 
Miss Johnson, a very modest young teacher^ who 

has been hired to tell the ladies what they want to 

know without trouble. 
The Soldier. 

\The Garden Club is about to meet at the home 
of one of its members^ Mrs. Draho, The club is 
composed for the most part of ladies of the aris- 
tocracy of their city who live on polished floors 
and butlers inside their castles ^ and marble walks 
and gardeners outside, Mrs, Draho^ the excep- 
tion y has been admitted because of her notably 
wonderfully beautiful garden. Her drawing- 
room, where the meeting takes place, is not a 
gratification of huge expense of the nouveau riche, 
but is rather a curiously crowded display of taste 
in selection — a wholesale collection of selection, as 
it were, of Rococo tables, Louis ^uinze chairs, 
gilded mirrors, Bohemian glass, Dresden china 
shepherdesses, etc, Mollie Barton and Clemen- 
tine Garth are ushered in by an immaculate maid,] 

Clementine. But Mrs. Draho is expecting us, 
isn't she? 

Maid. Oh, yes, miss. Mrs. Draho was de- 
tained at the Red Cross and is just eating a bite 
of lunch. She wasn't expecting the ladies quite 
so early. She will be with you in a few moments. 

109 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

If you'll just make yourselves at home, please. 
[She goes.] 

MoLLiE. I came early purposely to get a look 
at her house before the meeting. I was afraid 
she'd have us out in the garden and never let us 
get a peep at the house. 

Clementine. Yes, she would. Trust her to 
have us in the house. She knows everybody 
knows about her precious garden — she's digging 
her way into society through her garden — now 
she's got us here, she wouldn't let us escape 
without showing off the house. [Looking around 
at things,] Isn't it awful? 

MoLLiE. Most curious place I ever saw. 
Curious is the word. It looks like a salesroom of 
curios. They say she had Albertus Darling 
furnish it for her, and it looks exactly like his 
store — jewelry and antiques. 

Clementine. Albertus ought by rights to be 
a lady's maid instead of a jeweler. 

MoLLiE. If he were, what in the world would 
people do for an extra man to fill in at dinner 
parties ? 

Clementine. Fill in or fill up? 

MoLLiE. Oh, I said fill in. Albertus has the 
appetite of a cooing dove. That's another reason 
for inviting him, in addition to his wearing 
trousers — especially in war times— he's so cheap. 

Clementine. Well, his things are not cheap. 
[Looking about.] He must have made a fortune 
on this deal. 

MoLLiE. Very spiffy, eh? How many castles 
he must have rifled? I see English castles, one 

no 



THE STORM 



German castle, one Italian palace, one French 
chateau — I say, isn't it funny it's always English 
and German castles, the others are chateaux, 
palaces, villas. 

Clementine. Castles nothing. I see Paris 
pawn shops. 

MoLLiE. Well, she ought to smash up this 
Dresden china junk, it's not patriotic to keep it. 
Turn it into shells and smash a Hun's mug with it. 

Clementine. Break it up and use it for shell 
roads. 

Mollie. Oh, come in, Clem, you*re getting 
maudlin. 

Clementine. I'm not as outrageous as you 
are, anyway, coming to a woman's house for the 
sole purpose of making fun of it. You're abso- 
lutely low and shameless. 

Mollie. What else would I come for except 
the eats? I know they'll be de luxe^ and that's 
what brought you here, you pure virgin. 

Clementine. It will be a sell if they're not 
good after we've come such an outlandish distance. 
If they're not I'll never honor her with my 
presence again. 

Mollie. Tut, tut. People who live on other 
people's ice-cream mustn't throw mud. 

Clementine. Oh, don't be sanctimonious, 
Moll. You're as poor as I am. 

Mollie. Poorer, my dear, if that's possible. 
I make no pretentions, I'm a little sister of the 
rich, my brother married money. We haven't 
had any money in our family since my great- 
grandfather married it. My grandfather and 

III 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

father lost it all. In our family it is three gen- 
erations from marrying money to marrying 
money. 

Clementine. We still drag along on the little 
my father didn't spend. I wish Isaac would 
marry money, but he's getting old — 

MoLLiE. He's only forty. 

Clementine. But he's blind of an eye and has 
no sense of smell, and all the debutantes are 
marrying chauffeurs that have got to be cor- 
porals. They seem to prefer them to perfectly 
good blind or deaf gentlemen. And Isaac has 
got himself perfectly enthralled in Bahaism. 
Whom are you going to get to take you home? 
We can't walk back — it's too terribly far from 
the car line. 

MoLLiE. Why, you hypocritical cherub, you 
know we never walk. We only go with these 
dear old hens in order to ride in their limousines. 
I shall freeze on to Mrs. Smythe, the simple one, 
to take me along and drop me at my brother's. 
You'd better pick a limousine, too, and not an 
open car, because there will probably be a terrible 
thunder shower. 

Clementine. You're popular with the dears 
because they like to hear you talk, but I never 
feel safe. 

Mollie. Oh, hop-toads! There's no choice 
between us except I take more pains to polish up 
my adjectives. On the other hand, you're more 
interested in their ailments. 

Clementine. I guess I'll go home with Miss 
Watson. It's Thursday, the maid's day out, and 

112 



THE STORM 



we won't have anything but canned salmon at 
home. 

MoLLiE. Miss Watson lives perpetually on 
fatted calf, that's why the poor dear is eternally 
dyspeptic. But you'll have a re-hash of X-rays 
and stomach pumps. 

Clementine. Moll, how do you happen to be 
in the Garden Club, anyhow? 

MoLLiE. My brother married a garden, so 
I'm interested in hybrids. 

Clementine. Or mongrels. 

MoLLiE. How about you, my dear ingenuous 
debutante? 

Clementine. Other people sat in my grand- 
father's garden, so I don't see why I shouldn't sit 
in other people's gardens. Besides, I have a 
geranium bed in the back yard. 

MoLLiE. All gardens are alike to me. I walk 
in other people's gardens and enjoy the holly- 
hocks just as much as if I paid taxes on them. 
All my gardening is vicarious gardening. For 
that matter, there's a good deal of vicarious 
gardening. 

Clementine. Here's Miss Lilly. [Miss Wat- 
son enters \ How do you do, Miss Lilly? I trust 
you're feeling better today? 

Miss Watson. I am, I think I am. IVe gone 
to a new doctor. 

Clementine. But, Miss Lilly, you are better, 
and you must keep on thinking so. I'm not a 
Christian Scientist or anything like that — 

MoLLiE. Like that? you strange idiot. You 
either are a Christian Scientist or you're not — 

8 113 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

it's like having babies, you either have one or 
haven't, there's no half-way course. 

Clementine. What I mean is, I think you 
can think a great deal — even when you go to a 
doctor. 

MoLLiE. No, going to a doctor isn't a think- 
ing process — it's purely emotional. 

Miss Watson. Well, I have this new doctor, 
a perfectly marvelous man, a stomach specialist. 
He won't touch anything but stomachs. He says 
no one has ever understood my case before, that 
all the other doctors' treatment has been alto- 
gether wrong, that it isn't physiological at all, 
but anatomical entirely, that my stomach is 
reversed — think of it — reversed. And he has put 
me on a stringent diet of beer and fried po- 
tatoes. 

MoLLiE. That seems reasonable, if your 
stomach is reversed you should eat the re- 
verse of what is generally considered digestible. 

Miss Watson. I hadn't thought of that. 

MoLLiE. Perhaps it is the weight of the beer 
and potatoes that will turn your stomach over to 
its proper position. 

[Enter Mrs. Addison^ Mrs. Steimer^ and Mrs. 
S my the. There are greetings^ 

Mrs. Addison. How do you do, ladies? How 
do you do, Lilly. Welcome to our midst. 

Mrs. Steimer \to Miss Watson]. Oh, is this 
your first meeting? 

Miss Watson. Yes. I have always meant to 
come into the Garden Club, but my health 

114 



THE STORM 



seemed never to permit it, and I am always in 
mourning. 

Mrs. Addison. You have had a good many 
bereavements, Lilly, haven't you? 

Miss Watson. I am the constant subject of 
bereavements. Nobody has as many bereave- 
ments as I do. But when I heard you were going 
to change from a flower garden to a war garden 
club I determined that, come what might, I 
would join. You see, in addition to wanting to 
be a patriot and do my bit, I am also personally 
interested in potatoes. I have to eat them now 
exclusively. 

MoLLiE. Fried. 

Mrs. Smythe. Oh, my dear, not fried .^ 

Miss Watson. Yes, the doctor is very specific 
about their being fried. 

Mrs. Steimer. ^ut fried potatoes! They are 
so plebeian — what street-car conductors would eat. 

MoLLiE. Not they, poor souls — with their cold 
lunches. 

Mrs. Smythe. But think how pleased Mr. 
Hoover would be with anybody's using a diet of 
nothing but potatoes. Why don't you send him 
a telegram, dear, telling him how patriotic you 
are.'* 

MoLLiE. You might get a cross of — vegetable 
ivory. 

[Enter Mrs, Draho in a wonderful gown.] 

Mrs. Draho. Oh, how do you do, ladies? 
Oh, I am so ashamed of myself for not being 
ready. I was kept at the Red Cross, and I just 

"5 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

had to change my dress — I was so dirty, pot 
black! I thought you didn't meet till four and — 
excuse me, but the Garden Club has never been 
on time before and it isn't four yet. 

Mrs. Steimer. I suppose we all came early 
for fear we wouldn't see enough of your beauti- 
ful [looking about the room curiously] garden. 

Mrs. Draho. Are you all here? 

MoLLiE. Well, you know, we're never all there. 

Mrs. Addison. I think we might wait a few 
moments for some of the others to come. 

Clementine. Especially as the lady who is 
to talk to us this afternoon isn't here yet. 

Mrs. Smythe. Oh, is there to be a lady to 
talk to us? How interesting! Who is she? 

Clementine. Miss Johnson, of the Institute. 

Miss Watson. It sounds as if she were an 
insane person, but of course she couldn't be, 
could she, to address us? Is she an inmate? 

Clementine. The Institute, dear lady, is our 
city educational institution — 

Mollie. Easily confused with an asylum. 

Clementine. A college, you know. 

Miss Watson. Oh, yes, of course, I had for- 
gotten. It is the place here where the poor young 
men of the city go who can't afford to go away 
to Harvard. Is she a student there? 

Clementine. Dear, no. She is a professor. 
She teaches domestic science. 

Miss Watson. Oh, indeed. Is domestic 
science something like Christian Science? 

MoLLiE. They both belong to the same gen- 
eral family. 

ii6 



THE STORM 



Miss Watson. I don't understand you, 
MoUie, though I know what you say must be 
witty — you are always so witty. I don't see the 
connection between Christian Science and a 
garden club — but there are so many things quite 
beyond me. 

Clementine. She is going to tell us about 
vegetables. 

Miss Watson. I know — tomatoes are five 
cents apiece, my cook tells me. I have to buy 
them for the servants. They have to have so 
much. Of course I don't let them have bacon, 
but that makes them eat so many chickens. 

Mo L LIE. They are never on a diet of fried 
potatoes. 

Mrs. Steimer. It is time that woman was 
here. It is just like a woman of her class to 
keep us all waiting. 

MoLLiE. If she doesn't hurry up she'll be 
sprinkled. It's been sultry all day and the clouds 
are gathering fast — faster than we are. 

Mrs. Addison. Was some one going to bring 
her here.^ 

Mrs. Draho. Oh, no, she can come on the 
street car and then walk the rest of the way. 
She was given directions how to find the place. 

Mrs. Smythe. Maybe some of us ought to 
take her home. 

Mrs. Steimer. Oh, someone can drive her 
to the nearest car line. 

[Mrs. Lawrence and Miss Holworthy arrive, and 
there are greetings^ 

117 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Mrs. Steimer. Don't you think we can begin 
now? 

Mrs. Addison. I don't like to begin till all 
the ladies who are coming are here. Do you 
think any more will come, Mrs. Draho? 

Mrs. Draho. Well, I'm sure I couldn't say. 
They didn't any of them let me know. 

Miss Watson. Really, Clem, I'm all in a 
flutter. I wonder if it will hurt my stomach.? 
Because this is my first woman's club meeting. 
I have always been so afraid of ladies' clubs, 
they know so much. I am acquainted with all 
of you, and yet in a club you positively intim- 
idate me. If I am called upon for anything I 
feel sure I shan't find my tongue. 

MoLLiE. You won't be called upon for your 
tongue — only a tomato plant. 

Mrs. Lawrence. You see the purpose of the 
garden club was really for the exchange of plants. 
If I had a rose of a particularly fine variety — 

Mrs. Smythe. But you haven't, have you? 

Mrs. Lawrence. I would exchange cuttings 
of it for something 3^ou would have. 

Mrs. Smythe. But you haven't any roses, 
my dear. 

Mrs. Draho. You have something I do want 
so awfully, Mrs. Lawrence — your columbine. 

Mrs. Addison. Oh, yes, your columbines are 
famous. 

Mrs. Smythe. I'll give you some of my can- 
terbury bells for your columbine. 

Mrs. Steimer. Oh, we all want some of your 
columbine. 

ii8 



THE STORM 



Mrs. Lawrence [who^ be it rememberedy is 
huge^ speaking grandiloquently and pugnaciously]. 
They are not for exchange. Anyone that gets my 
columbine will have to do it over my dead body. 
[There is a moment's embarrassed silence^ 

Mrs. Addison. Shall we begin, ladies? 

Clementine. Maybe your Miss Johnson is 
afraid of the rain and isn't coming. 

Mrs. Steimer. Oh, no, people of that sort 
go out in all weathers. 

Miss HoLWORTHY. 1 think it is outrageous for 
us to be so slipshod in the way we conduct busi- 
ness. We haven't any parliamentary rules, at 
all. We don't pay any attention to parliamentary 
order. The reason the Germans and the suffra- 
gists have got ahead so is that they are so meth- 
odical and efficient. 

Mrs. Steimer. That's perfectly plain, and we 
ought to fight the Germans and the suffragists 
with their own weapons. 

Miss HoLwoRTHY. Exactly. We ought to 
fight them with method and efficiency. 

Mrs. Addison [nodding, I've heard my dear 
son use those terms. 

Mrs. Steimer. We've all heard the men use 
them. 

Miss Ho l worthy. Oh, yes, use the terms. 
But in the Garden Club we don't use method 
and efficiency. We sit around like a pack of hens. 

Mrs. Smythe [ecstatically]. Oh, my dear, you 
ought to be a four-minute man. You would be 
an inspiration to anybody. You are a burning 
torch. 

119 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Miss Ho l worthy [somewhat soothed]. Well, I 
think it is outrageous for us to be so slipshod. 
The reason the working classes have formed 
unions and all that and socialism has got so 
dangerous and everything, is that the women of 
the — the aristocracy — are so — so slipshod. 

Mrs. Lawrence. Wages have gone up ter- 
ribly. Why you have to pay an upstairs maid 
eight dollars a week now. 

MoLLiE. Upstairs maids have gone up. 

Mrs. Steimer. You can't get a good cook 
any more. 

Clementine. They have all gone into the 
army to cook mess and the women cooks have 
all gone into the hotels. They say they will 
have to employ women chefs in the hotels ex- 
clusively. 

MoLLiE. They are using girls for elevator 
boys and even for starters. It always did take 
a woman to start things. 

Miss Ho l worthy. Is this a garden club or is 
it not? As I was saying, we ought to use par- 
liamentary laws. 

Mrs. Addison. But, my dear, I am your pres- 
ident and I don't know anything about par- 
liamentary laws. 

Mrs. Steimer. We don't any of us. 

Mrs. Addison [rather tremulously], I am 
afraid you made me your president just because 
of my age. 

Miss Watson [forgetting her timidity], I think 
that's a very good reason. All the presidents of 
banks are old men. 

1 20 



THE STORM 



Mrs. Smythe. Oh, my dear, you were the 
natural president because you have the biggest 
garden. 

Mrs. Lawrence. That's the way things are 
done. In a business company the richest man, 
the one that has the most stock is always the one 
that's elected president of the company. 

Mrs. Addison. I may have the largest gar- 
den, but I am sure it isn't the choicest. I'm very 
humble about it. And now that we're going to 
be a war garden club I am sure mine will not 
excel. I have always had a small vegetable gar- 
den because I always go to my summer cottage 
in Mt. Desert for the warm months. 

Mrs. Steimer. I wish we could have another 
Red Cross drive. My little girls enjoyed it so. 
They were out every afternoon and had a per- 
fectly wonderful time, and they looked so cun- 
ning in the costume. I had a corking time 
myself. 

Mrs. Draho. It was fun, wasn't it? I stood 
and rattled my tin-cup in front of the bank just 
like a Salvation Army lassie and held up all my 
husband's friends as they went in. It was like 
a play. I just love things where you have to 
dress up. Don't you think we could give another 
fete? For the Italian orphans or something? 

Mrs. Steimer. It would be fun. We could 
have an East Indian booth. The costumes are 
so becoming. 

Mrs. Lawrence. Well, / can wear almost 
any kind of costume. They're all becoming to 
me. But I have to wear my glasses [they are 

121 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

large tortoise-shell rims] and my ground-gripper 
shoes. 

Mrs. Smythe. Oh, you look lovely, sweet- 
heart, in anything. You have so much presence. 
And those veils the Oriental women wear would 
partly cover your glasses. 

Mrs. Draho. Oh, here is Miss Johnson. 

[She arises and goes to greet the stranger^ who comes 

in puffing and hot and very apologetic j or being late\ 

Miss Johnson. Oh, I am so sorry to have 

kept you waiting. 

Mrs. Addison [kindly and benevolently]. We 
have been having a very pleasant time, my dear, 
while we were waiting. Don't upbraid yourself 
in the least. We always have a pleasant time. 
Miss Johnson. I lost my way. It was very 
stupid of me — I walked a mile up the wrong road 
and had to come back. 

Mrs. Steimer. But you were given instruc- 
tions just how to get here.^ 

Miss Johnson. Oh, yes, I made a mistake in 
the turn of the road — it was all my fault — it was 
all my own stupidity. I am always doing things 
Hke that. 

Mrs. Steimer. Perhaps you are the sort of 
person that is always unfortunate. There are 
such people, you know. 

Miss Johnson [resignedly]. Maybe I am. 
Mrs. Addison. Now that you are here at 
last, you can tell us so much about what we want 
to know — what we need to know. 

Miss Watson. Oh, is the meeting actually 
going to begin? I am all in a flutter! 

1 11 



THE STORM 



Mrs. Addison. What was the subject you 
were going to address us upon? 

Miss Johnson. The food values of our com- 
mon vegetables. 

Mrs. Addison. Oh, yes, to be sure. The 
food values of our common vegetables. Ladies, 
Miss Johnson of the Institute will now address 
us on the very important subject of the food 
values of our common vegetables. 

Mrs. Lawrence. Food values, indeed. It is 
the money values of vegetables that people are 
interested in. With tomatoes at seven cents 
apiece and peas at forty cents a small meas- 
ure. 

Mrs. Smythe. Dear me, are they so high.^" 
My housekeeper hadn't told me. 

Mrs. Steimer. High? Why, they sell onions 
and cabbage by the pound now. Think of it! 

MoLLiE. Even the low-brow yellow banana is 
not sold now in families of a dozen, but as an 
individual. 

Miss Holworthy \in wrath]. Is this a market 
quotation or is it a garden club? Are we going 
to listen to Miss Johnson or are we not? 

Mrs. Addison. Yes, yes, of course. Ladies, 
we are now going to listen to Miss Johnson of the 
Institute address us on the subject of valuable 
vegetables as food. 

Miss Watson. Oh, I am so excited! 

Miss Johnson [modesty slow^ and apologetic 
always]. Ladies, in talking to you about — about 
— about the subject Mrs. Addison has just men- 
tioned, I feel that I ought to apologise to the 

123 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



members of the Garden Club who must know so 
much more about vegetables than I do. 

Miss Holworthy \cynically\ We don't know 
beans about anything. We've been a flower- 
garden club — just little ephemeral butterflies is 
what we are, without any system or efficiency or 
parliamentary rules or anything. 

Mrs. Lawrence. But now we are turning into 
a war garden club. 

Mrs. Smythe. Just like a butterfly turning 
into a moth. [Smiling delightedly.] 

Miss Holworthy. We're going to get some 
efficiency into us if we have to dig to China for 
it. [She grits her teeth.] 

Mo L LIE [aside to Clementine], She'll get effi- 
ciency into us if she has to wring our necks to do it. 

[There is a moment's lull, then Miss Johnson 
resumes hesitatingly in an efort to give her 
lecture.] 

Miss Johnson. It is only in recent years that 
people have begun to think about food values. 

Mrs. Lawrence. Well, it's only since the war 
began that food has been so high. Why, you 
have to pay fifteen cents a loaf for Peterson's 
bread now that used to be eight. 

Miss Holworthy. You ought to be willing 
and glad to pay it. You ought to be willing to 
starve. 

Mrs. Lawrence. Well, I am. I'm as patriotic 
as anybody. I'm perfectly willing to starve, or, 
what is worse, I'm willing to eat the saw-dust 

124 



THE STORM 



they give us in bread, but what I do object to is 
the grocers making money off us. 

Mrs. Steimer. That's it exactly — they make 
money while we have to do without the things 
we need. Why, my husband was going to buy 
two new automobiles this spring, as usual, he 
always does — one for the family and one for 
himself, — and our grocers' bills had gone up so 
he said he just couldn't afford to — he could only 
afford to buy one and the family would have to 
do with the old one. Of course that means using 
a last year's model. It seems perfectly absurd 
not to be able to afford what you need and to 
have to put so much money into mere food. 

Miss Johnson [very hesitatingly]. There are 
people, you know — poor people — who always 
have to put everything they make into food. 

Mrs. Lawrence. They do that — they eat up 
all they make — they're perfect gluttons. 

Mrs. Draho. They eat up everything they 
make, when they ought to be saving nine-tenths 
of their wages. 

Miss Ho l worthy [furiously]. Is this a garden 
club or is it not? 

Miss Johnson [slowly — she is a sweety simple 
soul, who speaks always with modesty and hesita- 
tion]. Now there are a great many people who 
do not know very much about the properties of 
fats and starch and sugars. 

Mrs. Steimer [groaning. Sugar is so high. 

Clementine. Have you heard about the — the 
— maybe I'd better not mention the name — a 
family out in Glen Arden, who had their house 

125 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

filled with stores? The government officers got 
on to it and found five barrels of sugar in their 
attic. 

Miss HoLWORTHY. They ought to be interned. 

Clementine. But they're Americans. 

Miss HoLWORTHY. I don't care — they ought 
to be interned. 

Mrs. Lawrence. Well, I have a good deal 
laid away. 

Mrs. Steimer. You have to have. 

Mrs. Draho. They say at Atlantic City you 
can't get sugar for love nor money. You just 
have to tip the waiters hugely at every meal 
continuously. 

Mrs. Steimer. Talking about sugar and veg- 
etables, when there is such a shortage of sugar I 
have been thinking of something. They talk so 
much about beet sugar — now I don't see why we 
couldn't just use beets — just plain beets, you 
know, instead of sugar or molasses or syrups. 

Mollie. That beats the juice. 

Miss Holworthy. Is this a garden club, and 
are we going to listen to Miss Johnson or are 
we not? 

[In the momentary silence Miss Johnson re- 
sumes.] 

Miss Johnson. Well — er — er — as you prob- 
ably all know, vegetables differ somewhat in their 
properties of starch and sugar and — 

Mrs. Lawrence. Well, personally, I have 
cut out sugar. My doctor says it's fattening, so 
Fm glad to give my share to the soldiers. 

126 



THE STORM 



Mrs. Smythe [smiling benignly]. I'm sure 
that's doing your bit. 

Mrs. Steimer. Personally, I don't care for 
beets, they seem to me so plebeian, but I'm per- 
fectly willing to raise a lot of them — for the 
people, you know, to use in place of sugar. Have 
you put any beets in.'* 

Mrs. Lawrence. No, I put all my garden in 
corn. I'm very fond of corn. 

Mrs. Smythe. It always gives me a violent 
indigestion. 

Mrs. Lawrence. Corn? How absurd! Corn 
couldn't disagree with anybody. I've put all 
my garden in corn, and I'm going to keep half 
of it myself and send the other half to the Red 
Cross or the Y. M. C. A., or something. 

Mrs. Smythe. It might be sent to the orphans 
in Italy. 

Mrs. Lawrence. We were a little late getting 
it in, but the cunning little blades are all begin- 
ning to show now. It's only July and there's all 
the rest of the summer for it to grow in — if it 
only gets plenty of rain. 

MoLLiE. It will get some this afternoon. The 
storm is coming fast. 

Mrs. Smythe. You know what they say about 
putting all your eggs in one basket. I thought 
of that, and so instead of trusting to one vegetable 
I have put everything in my garden. Onions and 
turnips and corn and rhubarb — I had James put 
them all in together early in the spring. James 
never gardened before — he has always been a 

127 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

butler, but he is as interested in gardening now 
as I am. 

Mrs. Steimer. Are your vegetables all doing 
well? 

Mrs. Smythe. That's the advantage of not 
having all your eggs in one basket, you know. 
They all started well, the dear little green things, 
though of course most of them have died. 

Miss Watson [with an access at last of daring]. 
I haven't started my garden yet, but I'm going 
to have nothing but mushrooms. I'm so fond of 
them, and they take the place of meat, you 
know. I am going to have an entire acre ploughed 
up for a garden for them, and I shall keep only 
half of them myself and send the other half to 
the soldiers in France. I know I'm a little late 
starting my garden, but mushrooms grow so fast, 
and with all the hot summer sun I'm sure there 
ought to be a big crop by September. 

Miss Ho L WORTHY [groaning]. Is this a prac- 
tical garden club conducted with method and 
efficiency or is it not? And are we going to listen 
to Miss Johnson or are we not? 

[There is a moment' s pause ^ then Miss Johnson 
tentatively resumes^ 

Miss Johnson. As I was saying, starch — 

Clementine. I suppose we'll be eating the 
laundry starch soon and go without it in our 
clothes. 

Mollie. Wearing it inside instead of out. 

Mrs. Lawrence. Well, the doctors say starch 

128 



THE STORM 



is fattening like sugar. I have tried to cut out 
all starchy and saccharine foods, but there is so 
little left to eat. 

Mrs. Smythe. You do look starved, darling. 

Mrs. Draho. You can't tell from people's 
being fat whether they are big eaters or not. 
Some of the fattest people are the smallest eaters 
and some of the thinnest people are huge eaters. 

MoLLiE. It seems to me I have heard that 
statement before. 

Clementine. Winifred always says it when- 
ever Charlie's size is mentioned. Charlie has an 
enormous appetite — everybody knows it. He 
always eats everything in sight. 

Mrs. Steimer. He must be trained down now 
that he has been in an officers' reserve camp. 

Clementine. I don't see how Charlie can get 
to be an officer. Why, he never passed an ex- 
amination in his life. 

Mrs. Steimer. But you know his uncle is a 
senator. 

Clementine. Winifred has so many service 
flags for Charlie. She had them all made of satin 
and trimmed with gold fringe — one in the front 
door, one in each automobile, one at the garage, 
one on his locker at the golf club, one on each of 
the servants. 

Mrs. Smythe. That must be so encouraging 
to the people. The more service flags they see 
the more will they be influenced to enlist. We of 
our class must do all in our power to show the 
people an example of patriotism and zeal. 

Mrs. Steimer. That is exactly why we women 

9 129 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

should wear our service flags all the time as en- 
couragement and example to the people. It 
isn't ostentation at all. 

MoLLiE. There's thunder. 

Clementine [to Mrs. Steimer]. Who is your 
service flag for? 

Mrs. Steimer. My nephew. I ha've only two 
little daughters myself, but my nephew represents 
the family. 

Mrs. Smythe. I wear mine for a cousin's son. 

Miss Watson. I wear mine for a cousin. 

Mrs. Draho. I wear mine for my brother-in- 
law. 

Mollie. I wear mine for my sister-in-law's 
son. 

Mrs. Lawrence. I wear mine for my niece's 
brother-in-law. 

Mrs. Addison. Well, I wear mine for my own 
dear boy. 

Clementine. Isn't it strange that out of all 
of us Mrs. Addison is the only one who actually 
has a son in the service? 

MoLLiE. Oh, I don't know. A good many of 
us couldn't very decently have sons, could we? 
You or I or Miss Lily or Miss Anne — 

Miss HoLwoRTHY. Is this a garden club or 
not, and are you going to let Miss Johnson talk 
or not? 

[They all subside ^ and Miss Johnson hesitantly 
clears her throat and begins again \ 

Miss Johnson. Different vegetables differ in 
their food values and they also differ in the 

130 



THE STORM 



amounts of starch they contain and of sugar, and 
so on. 

Mrs. Steimer. I adore all vegetables. I am a 
perfect vegetarian. 

Mrs. Draho. Well, I think we have all been 
eating too much meat. It seems to me that this 
war garden movement is valuable that way, too. 
It will make people raise more vegetables and 
naturally be more interested in eating them. 

Mrs. Lawrence. Well, the people need food 
containing calor'ies — or is it pronounced cal'ories? 

MoLLiE. I don't know — you always say 
chol'eric old gentlemen. 

Mrs. Lawrence. One can never tell where 
the accent falls in these Greek derivations. 

Mrs. Smythe. And caffeine — they need a 
great deal of caffeine, too — or is it that they 
doYit need it.^* I never can remember. 

Clementine. There's thunder again. Do you 
notice how dark it's getting?. 

Miss Watson. Oh, I hope we are not going to 
have a storm. I am so timid in storms. 

Mrs. Steimer. The war garden movement is 
valuable that way. It does interest people in 
vegetables and they naturally like to eat their 
own vegetables. And then when there are so 
many vegetables growing there is the natural 
tendency to eat them. 

MoLLiE. I suppose that's the way cannibals 
feel. 

Miss Watson. Oh, it is a wonderful movement, 
isn't it? 

131 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Mrs. Steimer. And then our having war 
gardens is such a splendid example to the people. 

Mrs. Smythe. And it is doing our bit. [Smil- 
ing delightedly.] 

Miss Holworthy. I haven't seen that weVe 
done much yet. Are you going to listen to Miss 
Johnson? 

Clementine. There's thunder again. My, 
but it's getting dark. 

Miss Watson. Oh, do you think we are going 
to have a very awful storm? I am so timid in 
storms. 

Clementine. I am afraid it is going to be a 
hard storm. It is getting dark so rapidly. 

Mrs. Steimer. I don't in the least mind. I 
adore storms. There is something wonderful and 
big in the crashing of a storm. 

Mrs. Addison. Over there at the battle front 
it must be like a great storm all the time. I al- 
ways think in a storm that it is like what my boy 
is experiencing, and I like to feel that I am near 
him then. 

Mrs. Lawrence. Another reason why the 
war garden movement is excellent is that the ex- 
ercise is so fine for the people. Of course I went 
into it purely with unselfish motives — only with 
the desire to do my bit — but I do hope that the 
exercise may reduce me some. I intend to spade 
and hoe and rake and do everything, just as if I 
were a peasant. 

Mrs. Smythe. That's the spirit of democracy 
— isn't it splendid? 

132 



THE STORM 



Mrs. Lawrence. I should hope it might re- 
duce me twenty pounds in the season. 

Mrs. Smythe. Oh, it will be beneficial to the 
health of all of us. 

MoLLiE. It is getting perfectly pitch black. 

Miss Watson. Oh, I am so terrified! Mrs. 
Draho, is your house wired for lightning? 

MoLLiE. I don't see how we can go on. We 
can't see each other talk. 

Mrs. Draho. Shall I turn on the lights? 

Miss Watson. Oh, no, please don't turn on 
the lights! I am so afraid to have the electricity 
turned on. 

Mrs. Steimer. No, don't turn on the lights — 
I love to watch the storm. 

Mrs. Smythe. I never saw anything come on 
so rapidly. 

MoLLiE. It has been brewing all afternoon. 
Things come that way — slowly, and you don't 
notice them till they suddenly break. 

Clementine. Just like the war. 

Mrs. Steimer. It is black as midnight. 

Miss Watson. Oh, I am so terrified. Do you 
think it will strike us? 

Mrs. Addison. We are under shelter. I keep 
thinking it is like what my boy is hearing. 

[It grows very dark, so that objects on the stage 
become so dim they are scarcely seen at all. 
At the back suddenly appears a light, so that 
the stage is in complete darkness. In the light 
there is a vision of a young soldier, screened 
ojff, and therefore somewhat indistinct. He is 

133 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

in khakiy dressed as he would be in the trenches^ 
rather battered and worn. He moves about a little 
as if restless and with something on his mind, 
finally stands perfectly still, folds his arms, 
across his breast and stares s'traight ahead, his 
eyes somewhat cast upward, as if looking into 
the far distance \ 

Soldier. Mother — dear! \He speaks at first 
slowly, his voice low and tense as if with a supreme 
efort to carry through his intent \ Mother, I am 
feeling so very near you tonight. I want to 
write you a letter, for if anything happens to me 
tomorrow I'd like you to know that you had my 
last word, my last thought. WeVe been ordered 
to attack at dawn, and I shall be in the first line. 
It's not the big offensive — if that is ever going 
to come, and I hope it will soon, God knows — 
it's just going to be a little skirmish, but one can 
get killed in a small skirmish as well as in a big 
offensive, and I somehow feel so at the end of 
things that it makes me think seriously perhaps 
this is my last night. Night! Yes, deep night 
here with us, but I always calculate the difference 
of time, and it's only afternoon with you — yes- 
terday afternoon. I want with all my heart to 
write you a letter — if only just a note of my love 
and thought of you, but we are not permitted 
even a match now here in the front trenches. 
I don't know whether there's anything in telepathy 
or not — \he speaks slowly, wonderingly] sometimes 
I think there is. Anyhow, it's all I've got now 
between me and you. And I'm going to try it — 

134 



THE STORM 



to feel and think as intensely to you as I can and 
to talk to you. Do you hear me, dear? Oh, be 
near me. Mother! I have only a few moments 
left with you, for we have work to do before the 
attack, which is to begin at daybreak. 

I've done what I wanted to do, the right and 
glorious thing, the only thing possible for me to 
do, even if I take my life away from you and you 
are left desolate. You must be satisfied and proud, 
for it's a big thing to be able to fight in this war. 
Better fellows than I have been ruled out, unfit 
because of eyes or heart or something. I was 
sound and healthy and your harum-scarum, 
happy-go-lucky kid has stood hardships you 
would never believe possible for me to stand. 

It's been so different from what I expected, so 
very much harder and more awful and nicer, too, 
in some ways. The quaint little villages and the 
lovely country, the deep woods. Spring was 
lovely. Spring in France is marvelous, or rather 
summer, for it was like jumping from winter into 
summer — wonderful after the long, long weeks of 
grey and cold, slime and mud and ice, and day 
after day of lead-color skies, then suddenly 
orchards blooming everywhere and birds up in 
the woods singing all day long. I love to listen 
to them, especially the cuckoos at daybreak. 
I remember a corner of a field full of buttercups 
by a forest — birds calling from the woods, cuckoos 
and wood-pigeons, such a beautiful, marvelous 
world of blue and green, of sweet, fresh spring, 
country smells. 

That on the one side and then these trenches, 

135 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

these horrible holes in the ground where men and 
rats and vermin live side by side, and there is 
mud and slimy straw and worse — and stenches. 
And when the weather is hot that pungent, sick- 
ening, awful smell of rotting bodies out in No- 
Man's Land. I smelled it once all mixed up with 
the scent of blossoming orchards. 

There's no glory in the trenches, no glory in 
this sort of warfare. It's just brute endurance of 
what your soul hates, just stolid determination 
to carry on. When a rat runs over my foot, or I 
reach under my shirt to kill a louse, I just keep 
my lips shut, because I know it's all in the big 
game and can't be helped, and I'm better off than 
the fellow next me, who has a weak stomach 
yet never says a word of complaint about any- 
thing. That's about all the valor there can be 
in this kind of war — keeping your mouth shut 
and keeping your head if you can when you feel 
yourself going crazy. And the firing. Some- 
times it's just a little spitting and cracking, some- 
times the great huge booming, the shrieking, 
bursting of shells, cannonading. A big thunder- 
storm at home gives you a little idea of it. But 
I wouldn't be anywhere else, dear. I'm standing 
it, for I'm fighting for what I beUeve in with 
every drop of my blood. I'm in the big game, 
and I know that here is honesty and straight- 
forwardness. Here is no sham, no littleness, no 
sentimentality, no parade of false virtues. It's a 
struggle, it's life shorn of all parlor tricks. 

I can't talk to you any longer. Mother. I 
wonder if you hear, if you see me.^ It's night 



THE STORM 



and dark here, because it's cloudy. I don't see 
the moon or a star. It's yesterday afternoon 
with you. I wonder if you're in the garden — 
your pretty garden that I used to look down into 
from my bed-room window in the morning. I 
wonder if you have many roses this year and if 
there are any gold-fish in the pool? I think I'll 
have the pool deepened when I get home, so I 
can swim in it. That'll be hard on the gold-fish. 
There, I'm called. I've got to go, dear. There 
are things to do. We attack at daybreak. 

[He ceases speaking. The vision disappears and 
the room is left in darkness for a few moments. 
Then the light comes on and the ladies are seen 
seated as before.] 

Mrs. Draho [at the door]. Well, that was the 
most awful storm. I am so sorry you were left 
in the dark. I tried my best to turn on the lights, 
but it seemed the electricity wouldn't work. 
[The maid speaks to her at the door. She answers , 
then turns back to the group.] Oh, Mrs. Addison, 
there is someone wants to speak to you, a mes- 
sage. [Mrs. Addison gets up and goes out, fol- 
lowed by Mrs. Draho.] 

Mrs. Steimer. I wonder if possibly the house 
was struck? 

Miss Watson. Oh, do you think it could have 
been? I am all in a tremor. I do believe I had 
a shock. 

MoLLiE. If it had been struck all the wires 
would have been knocked out, and you see the 
lights are all right now. 

137 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Miss Watson. I feel sure something must 
have been struck. I feel positive I have had a 
shock. 

MoLLiE. It's still raining. It's going to be 
sloppy going home. I think it's going to keep 
on raining all evening. 

[Mrs, Draho re-enters looking white and fright- 
ened. They all gaze at her,] 

Mrs. Draho. I have some bad news. It has 
just come. Mrs. Addison has been sent for. Her 
son has been killed. It happened some time ago, 
but the word has just come through Washington. 
Her housekeeper came over to tell her and take 
her home. It seemis he was in an attack. He 
would have received the cross of honor. Maybe 
it will be sent to her. 

Mrs. Smythe. He was her youngest, her 
baby, the only one she had left, the others died 
years ago. And he was only twenty-one. 

MoLLiE. But he was doing something. He 
was leading his life splendidly. He was straight 
and honest. He was doing something great. 
And then — there must have been something else 
— he must have seen buttercups and heard wood- 
pigeons and watched the dawn. 

[Curtain.] 



138 



IN HEAVEN 

persons: 

George the Third. 
Louis the Fourteenth. 
Frederick the Great. 
Julius C^sar. 

time: 
A Moment in the Great War. 

[The scene is in Heaven. The lighting is dim 
and seems to come up from below in a faint ^ rosy 
gloWy for obvious reasons. On some nice com- 
fortable soft grey clouds three shades are sitting; 
another^ remote in spirit^ stands balancing him- 
self sedately on a cloud in the background. Al- 
though clad in soft and rather filmy draperies ^ 
these three are robust shades. They wear their 
crowns or haloSy but have stacked their harps 
together on another cloud nearby. One of them^ 
Frederick^ is peering with deep interest in front 
of him down below whence comes the rosy glow. 
One^ Louisy more interested in himself than in 
anything else^ is, however, observing the remote 
and solitary shade. One of them, George, has a 
spy-glass and an ear-trumpet and is absorbed in 
watching and listening to what is going on away 
of to the right.] 

139 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



George [moving restlessly on his seat as if try- 
ing to get a better view^ shifting his spy-glass and 
ear-trumpet^ and speaking somewhat irritably]. 
The clouds get in my way so! It*s hard enough 
anyhow to watch what is going on down on the 
Earth — what with comets flying by and shooting 
stars — and it's hard enough at best to see through 
the Milky Way. But now there are so many 
clouds hanging about the Earth, particularly over 
the spot of Europe. They get in my way fear- 
fully. 

Louis [laughing]. They are not the first thing 
that's been in your way, Georgie. It seems to 
me I can remember several things. You have 
the habit of getting yourself in front of obstacles. 
George Washington was one of them, for in- 
stance. 

George [exploding]. Louis, don't you ever 
dare to speak to me of that man ! 

Frederick. It is the war they are having 
down on the Earth that makes the clouds. The 
explosion of gunpowder always brings rain. 

Louis. Keep your mouth shut, Fritz! W^e 
have decided to hold no further conversation with 
you — in short, to cut you dead. 

C^sAR [somber and speaking in a melancholy 
tone of voice]. Why are you gentlemen quarreling 
so? It reminds me painfully of the days of the 
First Triumvirate, which brings back the mel- 
ancholy remembrance of my death. But would 
you mind telling me who you all are? I am 
a lonely ghost and should enjoy the pleasure of 
your acquaintance. I myself am Caius Julius 

1 40 



IN HEAVEN 



Caesar, commonly known by the last name in 
the series, merely. 

George. Oh, yes, Caesar! A good old Bible 
name. 

Frederick [jumping up to go over and grasp 
the hand of Ccesar]. Damned glad to know you, 
Caesar! I have always thought that you and I 
were kindred spirits — that is, when you were in 
your prime. 

Louis. There, there, none of that, Fritz! If 
you keep on being obtrusive, you'll be thrust into 
the outer darkness. Don't shake hands with him, 
Caesar, my friend. You are an Italian, remember. 

Frederick [laughing derisively]. A Dago — 
ha-ha! 

Louis. M. Caesar, I am most happy to pre- 
sent my friend, George the Third of England, 
and myself, Louis the Fourteenth of France. 
This ruffian here is Frederick of Prussia. We are 
on friendly terms with him, or the reverse, ac- 
cording to whether our nations are at war with 
each other or not. At present we are down on 
him fearfully and are ignoring and insulting him 
as much as possible. I must confess, M. C^sar, 
that I would have preferred you to be Nero or 
even Augustus. Nevertheless I am delighted to 
meet you, and I have a great mind to create you 
the Comte de Tiber. No! I have it! I will 
create you Comte de Marche, because you made 
so many splendid marches. 

C^SAR [wailingly]. Oh, don't mention March! 
The idea of March brings back the Ides of March, 
which are a most unhappy recollection. 

141 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

George. By George, man, why are you so 
somber and pathetic and melancholy, as if you 
were trying to impersonate Sir Henry Irving? 

C^SAR [sighing]. It is one of the tragedies of 
the after-life that we spirits must take the form 
of the popular image of us down on the Earth. 
Now Shakespeare ruined me. Of course, I was 
never remarkably robust, but I was athletic and 
military and developed myself to the very utmost. 
And I was a successful general, if I do say it 
myself. I should prefer to go through Eternity 
with some of the virility of my middle-age. But 
Shakespeare chose to describe me in my latter 
days, when my system was somewhat shattered 
by those unfortunate fits I had had all my life, 
and henceforth throughout Eternity I must al- 
ways be Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, the mere 
ghost of my real self. 

George. It's lucky for me that no playwright 
depicted me in my latter days of insanity. It 
would be horribly unpleasant to have to be in- 
sane throughout Eternity. I should hate it. 

Louis. You are safe from dramatists, Georgie. 
Your madness wasn't interesting enough. You 
were commonplace in that as in everything else. 

C^SAR [meditatively]. I understand a man has 
written a book called Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. 
That's all I am. The skull that once was Yorrick! 
Think of it! Ah! [Sighs deeply.] 

Frederick [Mustering]. I don't believe it. I 
don't believe any of it. You are practically ac- 
knowledging that a weakling dramatist is of 
more importance than a great general. That his 

142 



IN HEAVEN 



written word lives and that he has an influence 
on thought, that he influences and makes history. 
Fudge! Pst! Pah! 

C^SAR [going on absent-mindedly in his own sad 
trend of thought]. It is pleasanter to die young 
and Hve on throughout Eternity in the bloom of 
youth. Look at Rupert Brooke and Keats, for 
instance, in the Poets' Pasture of the Elysian 
Fields. There's a happy fate for you ! 

Louis. Oh, la. Heaven is full of the young 
just at present. They didn't have time to be 
bad, poor little fellows! The war got them first. 
But the other place will fill up with the old as 
time goes on. 

C^SAR. Yes, those who made the war have 
got to die some time. 

Frederick. Well, for me, I'm glad I didn't 
die young. It's more sport to live longer and 
fight a few wars and extend your kingdoms and 
rule with a rod of iron. 

Louis. Silence, Fritz! Who are you, to pre- 
sume to speak .^ 

George [fixing his spy-glass and ear-trumpet 
again]. The comfortable thing about Heaven is 
that here we can know all about what is going on 
in the world without the great bother of living. 

Frederick. Oh, comfort! I call that pure 
laziness. I'd much rather be in the thick of the 
fight. 

Louis. Silence, Fritz! 

George. Here in Heaven we know what's 
going on before and after we died. 

C^SAR. Heaven, as you call it, is the place 

143 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

where "we look before and after and sigh for 
what is not." 

Frederick. Oh, everybody knows that what 
you are sighing for, Caesar, is a crown. You didn't 
get it, and that is why you are everlastingly dis- 
contented. The idea of refusing a crown! You 
beat the Jews! 

George [meditatively]. It is true that he wasn't 
a king. The fact is that Caesar was only a near- 
king. \After the briefest pause as if cogitating over 
the idea.] I don't know that he ought to be al- 
lowed in this group — that he has the right to be 
associating with us. 

Louis. Well, George, pardon me, but if my 
family tree were as bourgeois as yours, I don't 
think Fd bring up the subject of qualifications for 
royalty at all. The fact is that I am the only 
one among you who is in every inch a king. We 
French are a very modest people. Our modesty 
is founded on our innate understanding of our 
own superiority over all others. Noblesse oblige. 

George [listening with his ear-trumpet]. I heard 
a queer thing just now down on the Earth. Some 
one said that the only place left for kings now- 
adays is the comic-opera stage. What do you 
suppose he meant by that? 

Louis. He meant "after us the deluge." 
[Laughs \ 

George. I don't understand. 

Louis. You never did understand. 

C^SAR [turning to them wearily]. Whom are 
the Romans fighting now.^ 

George. Oh, the Huns, as usual. 

144 



IN HEAVEN 



Frederick. Dummkopf! Give me the glass! 
[Seizes />.] You English have a way of telling 
things so as to make a man believe everything 
you say. [Looking through the glass.] Hah! It is 
as I thought, the Germans are victorious! They 
are at present conducting a victorious retreat. 
The Prussians are always victorious. No matter 
how things turn out, no matter where they are, 
no matter what the people think, Prussians are 
always victorious. Es geht ohne sagen. A Prus- 
sian understands that, whether anyone else does 
or not. It is in his will. 

Louis. Rude ruffian, where are your manners? 

Frederick. Why have manners when one 
may have efficiency? The end justifies the means. 

Louis. Rude ruffian, give me the glass! [PFith 
a grand flourish he seizes the glass and stands 
peering through it.] Ah, it is as I thought. The 
victory is to the French. They have done all 
the fighting. Their generals are superb. Every- 
thing is in France. The German army — dogs — 
is there, the English army is there, the little 
Yankees are there. France — ah, France is the 
centre of the universe! 

C^SAR. Let me look through your peculiar 
reed. [He takes the glass and gazes through it.] 
I knew I could not be mistaken. The Romans — 
Italians, as you call them — have won the war. 
It is their gallant fighting that has saved the day. 

George. Oh, talk all you like, but you are 
talking rot. When it comes to dividing the 
spoils, you'll find out who won the war. The 
English. 

10 145 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Frederick. Well, I don't care how much you 
all boast, just so you don't give any credit to 
those fool Americans. Let's keep the credit 
among ourselves here in Europe. 

C^SAR. Yes, keep the credit here in Europe, 
for the gold is in America. 

Louis. Silence, Fritz! What have you to do 
with it? We pet the little Yankees and pat them 
on the back and kiss them on both cheeks. 

George. Oh, what do you know about it, 
either of you ? [Listening with his ear-trumpet and 
both eyes tight shut.] They belong to me, those 
Americans. 

Frederick. Devil they do! Maybe they did 
once. 

George. They do again. You keep your 
awkward feet out of it. Everybody knows you 
brought on the war. I wouldn't have cared so 
much — none of us kings would — but the dire 
outcome of it is that those fool Yankees got busy 
about democracy, and that bloody Woody Wilson, 
with all his insinuations and suggestions, started 
your Germans to thinking, with the awful result 
that they turned themselves into a republic and 
— well, where is it going to end? Looks as if it 
would end with the end of us kings and all our 
families on the Earth. That would be a nice 
state of affairs, wouldn't it? 

Louis. It wouldn't be a state at all. / am 
the State. 

George. It sounds as though even that per- 
fectly inoffensive chap, George the Fifth, would 
have to abdicate. He does no harm. He doesn't 

146 



IN HEAVEN 



do a thing but keep up appearances and the 
social expense budget, and somebody has got to 
do that in an aristocracy. 

C^SAR [reflectively]. The Romans never ab- 
dicated. They always stabbed them. [Shivers.] 

Louis. The French used the guillotine a good 
deal. 

C^SAR [again peering through the telescope]. 
In Russia and some places they seem to shoot 
them. 

George. Is the Czar killed again? The Eng- 
lish court cannot go into mourning for him 
every time he's killed. Still, it impresses the 
people. 

Louis. Listen, if you can all keep a secret, 
ril tell you where the Czar is. 

Frederick. You? How do you know? I 
don't believe it. 

Louis. Who should know better than I? 
Paris always knows where discharged monarchs 
are. But you mustn't let it creep out. It mustn't 
be known on the Earth. 

George. Well, none of us ever walks on the 
Earth except Caesar. 

CyESAR. You mustn't upbraid me. It isn't 
kind of you to upbraid me. You know perfectly 
well that it is Shakespeare's fault that my ghost 
walks, and anyhow my ghost never warns or ad- 
vises or tells heavenly secrets. It only visits — 
like relatives or a bad conscience. 

Louis. Well, then, listen. The Czar of all the 
Russians has been shaved and let his hair grow 
and parted it, and is at present working demurely 

147 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

on a nice celery farm just out of Kalamazoo, 
Michigan. 

George. Where is Michigan? I never heard 
of it. 

Louis. It is one of your lost provinces. 

George. Oh, the devil! I tell you they have 
come back. 

Louis. Not they. You wait and see. America 
is too gay a place for the people to want to leave 
it and go back to English graveyards. 

C^SAR. What is this place you call America? 

Louis. It is a place one of your Italians dis- 
covered. And now your Italians there all dig in 
ditches for street railroads. 

C^SAR [proud/y]. The Romans were always 
great builders of roads. 

Frederick. Oh, what a fall was there, my 
countrymen ! 

C^sAR [with his eye at the telescope]. Gentle- 
men, from the way things are going in Europe, 
it looks to me as if all the kings would have to 
emigrate to America. One of the Austrian royal 
house is already planning to have a small shoe- 
store in Cumminsville, Ohio. His wife has saved 
a little and will set him up in business. It will 
be convenient and economical, because the family 
can live behind the store and keep a few chickens. 

George. I understand there are a great many 
chickens in America, and they are intending to 
stock France with them. 

Louis [smi/ing]. Transporting chickens to 
Paris would be a good deal like carrying coals to 
Newcastle, wouldn't it? 

148 



IN HEAVEN 



C^SAR. The king of Greece and Alfonso of 
Spain are going into partnership and will set up 
a little combination shop — candy and fruit and a 
shoe-shining parlor — fifteen by fifteen feet, on the 
west side of Clarke Street, Chicago. Greece will 
sell the candy and fruit and Alfonso will shine 
the shoes. Alf expects to charge eight cents a 
shoe or fifteen for the pair. Or no! I have got 
it mixed! It is Alf who is going to sell the candy 
and fruit and Greece will shine the shoes. 

Frederick. Elbow Greece has gone up. In 
fact, everything has gone up but brains. What 
about that young Willie Hohenzollern ? Has he 
any prospects? 

C^SAR. He expected to go into partnership 
with Manuel of Portugal, but Manny saw he was 
going to come out the little end of the horn, as 
neither of them wanted to work. They will each 
have to get partners who will do all the work. 
For the present Manuel expects to teach colored 
dancing classes — dancing classes of young darkies 
— in Louisville, Kentucky. And Willie is going 
to tour New England on an 1898 bicycle as a 
book agent for a volume his father wrote, entitled 
"How to Shoot Without Ammunition." 

Frederick. And the rest of my family? 

C^SAR. The youngest Hohenzollerns have all 
assumed Welsh names and are going to be cow- 
boys on ranches in the western States in America. 

Frederick. And the Kaiser? 

Louis. Pardon me, the Ex-Kaiser. 

C^sar. He has already shaved his moustache 
and has grown a large grey beard and taken the 

149 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

name of Hiram Johnson, and is going to assume 
the parts of rustic old men and of fathers in the 
movies in Hollywood. 

Louis. How about that delicate man, the 
Sultan of Turkey? I have always been interested 
in him. He is one of the few romaiitic figures 
left among modern monarchs. 

C^SAR. Oh, he is happily fixed. He has em- 
igrated to America and taken out papers of 
citizenship in Utah and joined the Mormon 
church. 

George. My grandson, George? He hasn't 
given up yet, has he? 

C^SAR. Yes, it looks as if he were going to 
finally. Of course the English are the very last 
to accept innovations. But the Church of Eng- 
land will buy him a nice tidy little island in Lake 
Chautauqua. 

George. That's thoughtful of them and like 
them. George never would feel comfortable off 
an island. 

Louis. Lake Chautauqua was discovered by a 
Frenchman. By rights it ought to belong to 
France — all America ought to belong to France, 
for that matter. I know all about Lake Chau- 
tauqua, and it hasn't any islands. 

C^SAR. Yes, a very diminutive one. Perhaps 
it was built just for him. 

George. A very diminutive one would satisfy 
George, but what about Mary and the children? 

C^SAR. She will have a boarding-house on the 
Assembly Grounds and conduct a night class in 
dressmaking. She has so much style, you know. 

150 



IN HEAVEN 



George. Chautauqua will suit Mary. She is 
the only prohibitionist that ever married into 
our family. 

Louis. If she doesn't get to flirting with 
William Jennings Bryan, I'll miss my guess. 
They were just cut out for each other. 

C^SAR. Louis the Fourteenth, you have a low 
mind. 

Louis [shrugging his shoulders]. We French are 
of the Latin race. 

C^SAR. Well, you know very well that the 
Romans were very particular, very particular. 

George. Where have I heard that said be- 
fore? Oh, on the Earth, of course — Harry 
Lauder said it about a drunken sailor. 

C^SAR. We took our matrimony straight, 
absolutely straight, like the English. 

Louis. I have always thought there was a 
similarity between the Romans and the English. 
I wonder no one else has ever noticed the re- 
semblance. 

C^SAR. Our wives were good souls. Helpful. 
The fact is, I miss Calpurnia dreadfully. She 
took such good care of my clothes and diet. She 
always had my togas so nicely laundered and a 
hot-water bottle for my feet at night. In my 
later years — I always call them my Shakespearean 
years — I suffered so miserably from cold feet. 

Frederick. You have told us all about the 
other monarchs, but what about my fool grand- 
son, the Kaiser.^ What is he doing now before 
he goes into the movies? 

Louis. The Ex-Kaiser, you mean. 

151 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

C^SAR [gazing through the telescope]. They 
have had a great deal of trouble about the Ex- 
Kaiser. You see, he was too efficient. There 
were so many things he did too much. 

George. He ran efficiency into the ground — • 
rather — didn't he? 

Louis. Overdone efficiency is like a charred 
roast of beef. 

Frederick. To change the figure somewhat, it 
''o'erleaps itself," as your Shakespeare would say. 

C^SAR. My Shakespeare? 

George. Or mine? 

Frederick. That's William all over. He tried 
to be so all-round that he ran round in circles. 

Louis. A vicious circle, one might say. 

C^SAR. I see that they tried him on a stock 
farm, but he spent all his time drilling the cows 
to march in battalions. Then they put him in a 
millinery shop, and he took all the hats to pieces 
and put them on blocks to reshape them into 
helmets. After that he was put into a straw- 
berry patch, but he tried to train the strawberries 
to grow in rows and cut off the buds in an effort 
to make the fruit all ripen at the same time. 
Then they hired him out as a chauffeur, but he 
tried to get ahead of everything in sight and had 
so many accidents he had to be taken out of that. 
Finally, after a try-out at almost everything — for 
he said he could do anything — the Y. M. C. A. 
made up a little purse for him out of their excess 
profits, realizing that they owed it to him, and 
bought a little corner store for him down in 
Hattieboro, Kentucky. And there he sits on a 

152 



IN HEAVEN 



cracker barrel by an air-tight stove and tells all 
the other loafers how the U. S. A. ought to be run. 

Louis. All that is very interesting. But what 
about the ladies? Where is that pretty Queen 
Wilhemina, the Queen of Holland.^ She is a 
buxom maid, a man's good armful. I like them 
plump. 

C^SAR. Oh, she still lives in Holland and just 
as usual. They have been placid in Holland. 
Of course she was deposed — placidly, very placidly 
deposed, or will be — I can't quite make out 
which \squinting through the glass\ and is, or will 
be, president of a mothers' club and votes. 

Louis. Votes — pah! I suppose they all vote, 
much good it may do them. Fritz, it is all your 
fault — I'd like to have you guillotined. \Makes 
a wild dive at Frederick^ All your fault, or the 
fault of your idiot grandson, for getting up the 
war and thereby precipitating democracy on the 
Earth. 

Frederick [dodging him]. You can't cut my 
head off, for I'm nothing but a ghost, and you 
can't cut a ghost's head off. We're all spooks 
now, not kings. Besides, it is not fair to blame 
me for what William did — it's not fair to visit 
the sins of the children upon the fathers. 

George. You started the notion of the in- 
fallibility of royalty. 

Frederick. I never did. I was always human 
■ — all too human. I wish spooks could fight, for 
then you would see whose head would get knocked 
off. I always was a believer in the strenuous life, 
I was. But this William was spoiled, his father 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

was too easy on him. I taught my son to love 
me by beating the life out of him. You can't be 
too tender with boys. But this Hohenzollern — 
pah! — Vd like to take him and wring his neck — 
he's ruined all I built up. I'm not responsible 
for him — not I! Emperor, forsooth! What busi- 
ness had he to write poetry and compose music 
and think he was blood-cousin to God? Be- 
whiskered and be-sworded baby! That's what I 
think of my descendant. You can build up a 
kingdom for your children, but you can't keep 
them from ruining it. 

Louis. They had a lively time in France after 
my day, too. These moderns don't understand 
the business of being king. 

George. My little George does — or Lloyd 
George, I forget which. Their names are so 
alike that I can't remember which is which some- 
times. The only way I can tell the difference is 
that George has a beard and Lloyd George only 
a moustache. Anyhow, they understand that a 
king nowadays oughtn't to try to do anything 
but open the horse-show. 

C^SAR. You talk as if there were a lot of kings 
still when I've told you they are abolishing 
them. A man can't afford a king and an auto- 
mobile at the same time. 

Frederick. I suppose not, unless he happens 
to be a butcher, and they can't all be butchers. 
A small place like Chicago can't support more 
than about two. 

Louis [MUer/y]. Well, it's a crass age, and 
taste for the picturesque is dead. Men prefer 

154 



IN HEAVEN 



automobiles to kings. What is the world coming 
to? It seems that people are beginning to prefer 
to have a good time themselves, rather than have 
kings to have a good time for them. 

C^SAR [sighing heavi/y]. I am tired of gazing 
through your peculiar reed. And I am lonely. 
There hasn't been a general to come up here to 
Heaven for ever so long. In my day colonels 
and generals were killed, but now they kill off 
only the boys and presidents. I am a little home- 
sick and I miss the ministrations of Calpurnia. 
I would fain repose me somewhere. 

George. Go lie down on the harps. 

Louis. Harps are cold comfort. He said he 
wanted Calpurnia. 

C^SAR. I regret that we Romans did not 
think differently of women — then we could 
have them all with us in the after-world. Cal- 
purnia was a good soul, gentlemen, a worthy 
person. She had only one fault — she would have 
the nightmare. She did make night hideous 
with her cries occasionally — especially before the 
Ides of March. 

George [dropping his ear-trumpet]. By George, 
it is lonesome up here without the women. There 
isn't one interesting woman in our set up here. 
Catherine of Russia, Mary Queen of Scots, the 
Empress of China, all the clever ones are in the 
other place. 

Louis. A woman's sins are never done, a 
man's forgot e'er he goes to heaven. 

George. A woman's sins are never done? 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Do you mean by that that someone else does 
them for her? 

Louis. Read it as you will — at least they are 
never forgiven. That is why heaven is so dull 
for us. There are no queens here except Victoria. 

George [bristling]. Don't say anything against 
Victoria — she's a good woman. 

Louis. There, there, I know she is — I wouldn't 
say a word against her — I honor her to extinc- 
tion, I assure you. But her place is Buckingham 
Palace. A good woman's place is the home. I 
am an anti-suffragist. The place for good women 
is the home — I want a few places left where you 
can have a good time. 

George. But Victoria is all right. 

Louis. Of course she is, that's the trouble. 
You know you yourself hid from her just a little 
while ago. 

George. Well, she goes around talking about 
the children all the time — you have to escape 
her, that's only self-preservation. She gives long 
dissertations on how Ally had the measles and 
Arty the mumps and Viccy the whooping cough, 
how AHce's kitten scratched her finger and how 
Eddy sprained his ankle and little George fell 
from his pony — till you can't stand it. 

Louis. One of those modern Americans has 
said that home is the place where they have to 
take you in when you have to go there. Good 
women should be kept there — to take you in 
when you have to go there. And I add, a good 
woman's place is the home. She ought to be 
kept there. 

156 



IN HEAVEN 



C^SAR. I don't care — I'm lonesome for Cal- 
purnia. [Begins to weep.] 

Frederick [who has taken up the telescope ca^t 
down by Ccesar and the ear-trumpet discarded by 
George]. Pah and bah! It is disgusting down 
there on the Earth. They do nothing but run 
about and have little revolutions — they make me 
sick! I like real war that ends in conquest and the 
building up of your kingdom. What they nttd 
now in Europe is a full house of proud and haughty 
kings — then they wouldn't have time for all their 
silly Httle revolutions and their vaunted discon- 
tent. They make me sick! [Throws down the 
telescope and the ear-trumpet. Yawns.] I wish I 
could have a merry little game of pinochle with 
some clever-tongued female. 

C^SAR [weeping quietly]. I want Calpurnia. 

George [peering down in the direction of the 
red lights]. This atmosphere up here is too thin 
for my blood. Down there they have a cozy fire 
and — yes, there are plenty of queens, not to 
mention duchesses. I do love a nice fat little 
duchess. 

Louis. Gentlemen, Heaven is no place for 
kings, let us forth upon the trail — the long trail, 
the broad trail, the winding trail, the trail of 
many turnings. 

C^SAR [wailing audibly], I want Calpurnia. 
Do you suppose we would find her there? 

Louis. Undoubtedly. 

George. If I could find a fine, plump girl 
down there I'd be perfectly willing and more 
than willing to go. I could make her a duchess. 

157 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Frederick. Vm willing to hit the trail down 
to the merry glow. This place is deadly dull. 
I want to go where there are ladies. A good, 
gay frau! Ja — I like a jolly frau, a house-frau 
who knows how to cook! 

C^sAR. I feel better at the very thought of 
going! 

Louis [taking Ccesar by the arm]. Come, M. 
Caesar, come, gentlemen all. Heaven is not the 
place for us. The place for us, for all the great 
royal hearts of all time, is that rose-coloured spot 
where there are ladies. Come, my friends! 
Cherchez lafemfne! 

[Ccesar^ in a broken^ reedy voice, starts the song, 
''For It's Always Fair Weather When Good 
Fellows Get Together ^^ and they all sing it 
loudly as, arm in arm, they start o^ toward 
the rosy glow.] 

[Curtain.] 



158 



WTHEN TWO'S NOT COMPANY. 

PERSONS AS THEY APPEAR: 

A Young Man. 
Another Young Man. 

Time: Today. 

Scene: The Library in the Home of the Girl. 

[The room is large and comfortable and well 
furnishedy expressive of the easy wealth of a 
Middle-West city. There is a big davenport 
furnished with an ample number of pillows and 
a big table similarly furnished with books, big 
chairs furnished with deep seats, etc., every indi- 
cation that the pater familias made plows suc- 
cessfully for years even before the war. At the 
back of the room large curtained windows open 
out upon a lawn which stretches to the street. 
To the right a curtained doorway leads into a 
hall which is heard to contain a hall-clock pos- 
sessing Westminster chimes, A young man 
enters, talking to an invisible maid in the hall,\ 

Young Man. That's all right. Maybe she 
isn't at home to everybody, but she will be at 
home to me. There now, don't worry. You've 
absolved yourself — told me she isn't at home and 
I'm coming in anyhow, taking all the responsi- 
bility on myself. See.^ You should worry. The 

159 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

fact is I've got a date with her at five, so 
she'll be home soon. I may be a few minutes 
early — watch a little fast. [fValks back to the 
dooTy taking of his overcoat and handing it and his 
hat to the iywisible maid in the hall, who gives him 
the eveniyig newspaper. He comes back into the 
room with the paper in his hand, talking the while.] 
Yes, thank you, I'll take in the paper. I'll take it 
in. Now, listen, if Miss Elaine comes in without 
my seeing her, you just tell her I'm here. I'll 
make myself at home till she comes. [He walks 
back into the room with the complacent air of one 
who feels him selj perfectly at home and moves about 
a little, placing the newspaper on the table, before 
selecting a chair in which to sit. Finally he sits 
down in a chair facing the hall and expectantly 
watches the door. Being somewhat nervous, he re- 
mains sitting only a few moments, gets up and 
stalks about, puts his hands into his pockets and 
takes them out again, exafnines the pictures, the 
books, goes and looks out of the window, comes 
back and sits down again in a different chair, gets 
up and looks out of the window again, comes back 
and picks up a magazine, throws it down and goes 
to the window again, returns and examines a 
Clois Sonne jar, drops it, ejaculates "Oh, Lord!" 
picks it up, finding it unbroken, replaces it, throws 
himself into another chair, occupying altogether 
four cef2turies or minutes in his fidgeting, and 
finally is standing at the window, when he sud- 
denly exclaims "Oh, Damn!", hurries to the table, 
seizes a volume, drops into a chair, and presents 
the appearance of one who is consumed in the read- 

i6o 



WHEN TWO^S NOT COMPANY 

ing of a most exciting book. In the meantime the 
electric bell of the front door has been heard to ring, 
and in a few moments another young man appears 
in the doorway, talking as before to the invisible 
maid in the hall.] 

Other Young Man. Oh, I don't mind wait- 
ing, ril just sit here till she comes. It won't be 
long now, I imagine. Don't tell anyone I'm here. 
I'll just put in the time. Oh, if I don't happen to 
see Miss Elaine when she comes in, will you 
please tell her I'm here waiting for her. [He 
turns about and, coming in, sees the Young Man. 
The look between them is as cordial as that of two 
young dogs who have just smelled the same bone.] 

Young Man [in the antithesis of a Christian 
greeting. Hello. 

Other Young Man. Oh, you here? 

Young Man. I guess so. Looks like it. Why 
not.^ 

Other Young Man. Well, why should you be ? 

Young Man. That's my business. 

Other Young Man. Oh, I don't know. Per- 
haps not altogether. 

Young Man. I think it is. I'll tell the world 
so. By the way, you're here. 

Other Young Man. So it seems. 

Young Man. Maybe / wonder why. 

Other Young Man. Well, I might quote you, 
and say it's my business. 

Young Man. Oh, indeed. Have it your own 
way. 

Other Young Man. I think I shall. [He 
selects a chair near the door and sits down. The 

11 i6i 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Young Man ardently peruses his book. After 
some scintillating moments of silence in which un- 
seen sparks fly^ the Other Young Man coughs. 
Silence again. He coughs again.] 

Young Man. You seem to have it bad. I 
hope it isn't tuberculosis. 

Other Young Man. No, it's to-be-local- 
ass's victim. 

Young Man. What? 

Other Young Man. Nothing. Don't let me 
interrupt your reading. 

Young Man. Oh, you don't interrupt any- 
thing. 

Other Young Man. Thanks. You seem to be 
much absorbed. Is it a new book? 

Young Man. Yes. [Holding it up and looking 
at the fresh leather binding^ Yes, just out. 

Other Young Man [coming over and standing 
near the Young Man as if to look over his shoulder^ 
an action which the Young Man evidently resents^ 
as we always do,] What is it? 

Young Man [reading the title slowly from the 
back of the book], Hesperides [pronouncing it 
Hesper-ides]y by a guy named Robert Herrick. 

Other Young Man. Oh, poetry. 

Young Man [frowning darkly]. Yes, of course. 

Other Young Man. I didn't know you were 
a lover of poetry. 

Young Man [emphatically], I am. There are 
a lot of things you don't know about me. 

Other Young Man. I suppose you read all 
the new things. Herrick and Suckling and 

162 



WHENTWO'S NOT COMPANY 



Crashaw, and all the modern free-verse profiteers. 
{Standing by the table.] 
Young Man. Yes, I do. 

Other Young Man [walking away a few steps]. 
Funny — 

Young Man. Not funny at all. 
Other Young Man. Yes, it is funny. [Turn- 
ing about.] Psychologically considered, it is quite 
remarkable. When we were in school your one 
preoccupation was baseball. You couldn't be 
hired to read anything but the sporting page of 
the newspaper. Now it seems to be only a step 
from Babe Ruth to Amy Lowell. [The Young 
Man pretends to be completely absorbed in his 
book. The Other Young Man takes out his cigarette- 
case, lights a cigarette, and sits smoking and watch- 
ing his companion and smiling contemplatively \ 
I remember you couldn't be made to read "The 
Children's Hour" or "Little Orphant Annie" or 
"Paul Revere's Ride," or anything. You wouldn't 
even take an interest in "The Boyhood of Theo- 
dore Roosevelt." Your mother used to bribe me 
with movie tickets to help you with your lessons. 
[Puffing large rings of smoke.] Your development 
into an impassioned lover of poetry is almost 
beyond belief, but it is evidently true. Proof 
that would satisfy any court. 

Young Man. Gosh! I never could understand 
why you lawyers think you are so witty. No one 
else thinks so. 

Other Young Man. How direct you are! 
You would make a splendid witness. 

Young Man. Witness.? [Turning in his chair 

163 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

and glancing at the Other Young Man.] Heaven 
preserve me from ever falling into a lawyer's 
clutches. You think because you went to college 
and studied law and I went straight into business 
that youVe hogged all the brains in the world. 

Other Young Man. Not at all. I went to 
college and pursued the pragmatic illusion of 
education and you stayed at home and pursued 
the arts. You are my superior. [Bowing elab- 
orately?^ 

Young Man. You think it's an easy job learn- 
ing how steel accessories are made and selling 
them. 

Other Young Man. Far from it. You are 
the true artist. [Leaning back in his chair and 
speaking with elocutionary ejects and gesturing.] 
The business man is. He composes the music of 
the mills, the lyrics of the slums. He paints the 
genre pictures of the factory. He carves the 
statue of success out of steel. [The Westminster 
chimes in the hall strike five o'clock. Both young 
men take notice. The Young Man jumps to his 
feet and throws the book on the table. The Other 
Young Man puts out his cigarette. The Young 
Man thrusts his hands into his pockets and walks 
about rapidly. Each is intent upon his own ap- 
pearance and the coming event and only surrep- 
titiously conscious of the other. Finally after a few 
moments of anxious waiting the Young Man blurts 
out his statement.] 

Young Man. Jove! I may as well tell you. 
I have a date here at five o'clock this after- 
noon. 

164 



WHEN TWO'S NOT COMPANY 



Other Young Man [immovably]. You surprise 
me. 

Young Man. By Jove, you mean you're going 
to stay? 

Other Young Man. Certainly. Why not? 

Young Man. Well, you have the nerve. [He 
nervously walks about, glancing angrily and hur- 
riedly at and away from the Other Young Man 
several times. At last he throws himself into a 
chair again \ 

Other Young Man [taking out his cigarette- 
case again]. Have a cigarette? 

Young Man. Thanks. I have my own. [The 
Other Young Man carefully lights a cigarette. 
2 he Young Man, after a little nervous and angry 
brooding, also takes out his cigarette-case and lights 
a cigarette. More unseen sparks fly as they glance 
at and away from each other \ 

Other Young Man. If you Ve entirely finished 
your first book you might read another volume 
of poetry while you wait. It will while away the 
time for you. [Reaching over the table.] Here's 
one called "Paradise Lost." Good, thick book — 
ought to last you several minutes. Also, inter- 
esting title. Also, most apropos title for you. 
[The Young Man gives him a furious glance.] 
Most apropos. 

Young Man. I reckon you think your kidding 
is the funniest thing in the world, but, believe 
me, it's dumb. 

Other Young Man. Sorry you don't appre- 
ciate my efforts at conversation. 

Young Man. Oh, conversation be damned! 

165 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

[Getting up.] I don't like to be rude or anything, 
but the fact of the matter is, when a man has the 
consummate nerve you have there is only one 
thing to be done. 

Other Young Man. Interesting analysis. Go 
on. 

Young Man [walking over in front of the Other 
Young Man and turning on him furiously]. And 
that is, to tell the truth. 

Other Young Man. I have ever been a seeker 
after truth. Proceed. 

Young Man. I've told you that I have a 
date with Elaine at five o'clock. The only de- 
cent thing for you to do under the circumstances 
[crossing back to the other side again] is to make 
yourself scarce. 

Other Young Man. That may seem so from 
your point of view, but it is unfortunately — for 
you — impossible. Sorry not to be able to ac- 
commodate you. 

Young Man. Look here. You know this is 
carrying things almost too far. By gum, this is 
my dance, you can't cut in. See.^ Your pres- 
ence isn't wanted. 

Other Young Man. My dear boy — 

Young Man. Don't you "dear boy" me! 

Other Young Man. If you don't enjoy my 
presence, it is fairly evident what you can do. 

Young Man. You have the nerve of a turtle, 
the cheek of a hippopotamus. 

Other Young Man. Picturesque figures. 

Young Man. Oh, it's no joke. I have a date 
with Elaine here this minute. 

1 66 



WHEN TWO'S NOT COMPANY 

Other Young Man. So you've intimated 
twice before. But one may assume that she 
hasn't one with you. 

Young Man. Do you mean you think Fm 
lying? 

Other Young Man. Well, perhaps you are 
exaggerating a little. 

Young Man. Oh, thunder, you know I never 
do. I'm not up to that sort of thing. 

Other Young Man. Not as a rule, but I 
have reason to believe you are doing it right now. 

Young Man. What do you mean? 

Other Young Man. You say you have an 
engagement here at five o'clock with Elaine, but 
that is absolutely impossible, because I have an 
engagement at five o'clock here with Elaine. 

Young Man. The deuce you have! 

Other Young Man. It may be unwelcome 
news to you, but it is true. 

Young Man. Oh, go to the dickens! 

Other Young Man. My dear fellow, that is 
the habitat for you. I stay right here. I keep 
my engagement. 

Young Man. You can't fool me with any 
cock-and-bull story like that. 

Other Young Man. It wouldn't interest me 
to try to fool you. Fm telling the truth. I made 
an engagement with Elaine to be here at five 
this afternoon. 

Young Man. You're talking rot. I made an 
engagement with Elaine to see her at five this 
afternoon. [He crosses over to the Other Young 
Man.] 

167 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Other Young Man. Sorry to dispute your 
word. 

Young Man. Do you think Vm lying? 

Other Young Man. Well, the evidence is 
against you. 

Young Man. Oh, all right, you'll see when 
she comes. Vm it! 

Other Young Man. When she comes you 
will have the opportunity to observe that I am 
the man! 

Young Man. Why, man, I called her up over 
the 'phone this morning at ten-thirty and made 
the engagement for this afternoon at five. 

Other Young Man. I telephoned yesterday 
afternoon at three-thirty and made the engage- 
ment for this afternoon at fivG, 

Young Man. Well, if you did, which I doubt, 
she forgot all about it by this morning. [He 
crosses back to his chair by the table.] 

Other Young Man. If she made an engage- 
ment with you this morning, which I don't be- 
lieve, she was just playing a little game with 
you. 

Young Man. Oh, thunder! She may have 
played her little games with other men, but she 
never has with me. When she meets a real man 
she's perfectly straight, the most honorable little 
girl in the whole world. 

Other Young Man. I agree with you in sub- 
stance, but you have made a mistake as to the 
identity of the man. I have every reason to 
believe in her. 

Young Man. Fm willing to trust her. 

i68 



WHEN TWO^S NOT COMPANY 

Other Young Man. The world is full of will- 
ing fools. 

Young Man. It's overcrowded with able liars. 

Other Young Man. Am I to infer that in- 
cludes me? 

Young Man. You know best yourself. 

Other Young Man. All right, young man, we 
shall see. 

Young Man. You bet we'll see — when she 
comes. 

Other Young Man. Yes, when she comes. 

{There is a noise of a door slamming and they 
both jump to their feet and stand facing the 
hall. No one comes ^ and^ after a few moments 
of intense waitings the Young Man sits down 
again. They have their backs to each other 
and are most obviously oblivious of each other. 
The Young Man becomes restless and screws 
about in his chair. The Other Young Man 
watches him with lips compressed in a sar- 
donic and legal grin.] 

Other Young Man. Why don't you smoke 
another one of your own cigarettes? [Takes out 
his case and lights another cigarette for himself \ 

Young Man. Aw — go — to — [grunting]. 

Other Young Man [after a few complacent 
puffs]. Well, you might read another book of 
poetry to while away the time. 

Young Man [turning on him viciously], I 
reckon I might. By the way, you need some 
occupation yourself to put in the time. There 

169 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

are some clubs out in the hall. Why don't you 
play a little parlor golf? 

Other Young Man [a little nettled]. Thanks. 
I'm doing very well. [He sits down.] 

Young Man. So I've heard. Didn't know 
till the other day that you'd taken up the game, 
but it's never too late to learn. The coach at 
the club tells me you're a braw man at swiping 
up the earth — says he'd back you against a Ford 
tractor at swiping up the clods. Why don't you 
hire yourself out to a farmer in the ploughing 
season? But of course that's not your gam^e. 
Every sport has two birds — to the politician — 
the bird in the biish may be your little golf ball, 
but the bird in the hand is the unfortunate man 
you play with — a prospective client, eh? You 
lose the game, but gain your own client? Oh, 
boy [getting up and walking about], but you're the 
wonderful little sportsman! Didn't know you 
liked the game so well yourself, did you? 

Other Young Man. Oh, I Hke it well enough. 

Young Man. Do you now? Well, well. I 
wonder when you turned into such a sport? As 
I remember, you'd never play games when we 
were kids. Wouldn't play marbles, because sit- 
ting on the ground got your pants dirty. [The 
Other Young Man flushes and looks annoyed.] 
Wouldn't box or wrestle. If a boy wanted to 
fight you, you bought him off with candy. 
Wouldn't play hockey or learn to skate. But 
you're a lover of sports now all right ? 

Other Young Man. Oh, more or less. 

Young Man. Strange, but a fact, as the old 

170 



WHEN TWO^S NOT COMPANY 

lady said when the lightning struck her. Yet I 
remember you would never play ball, and once 
when the fellows made you and shoved you into 
the game and a ball happened to light on your 
nose, it bled so you cried. [He sits down.] 

Other Young Man. I bleed so easily. 

Young Man. And you bleed other people 
easily, too, don't you? But in those days you 
never could be got to play tennis or learn to 
drive a car. It's so different now. Now you just 
love hand-ball, don't you? 

Other Young Man [weakly]. Well, why not? 

Young Man. Oh, I don't know — seems odd. 
It used to be so different. But now I understand 
you're a regular lion in the gym and go off on 
wild hunting trips — nothing but big game sat- 
isfies you! And drive your own Rolles-Royce. 
Gee, it's fine to see a regular he-man, strong and 
fit, like you. A regular hefty. Wonder you 
don't challenge Dempsey. If you do, let me act 
as your sponger, will you? 

Other Young Man [fussed like a dignified 
rooster when he is teased]. All you know about it. 
Why shouldn't I have become athletic, for all 
you know? 

Young Man. Oh, but I do know, that's just 
it! You've turned into a regular athlete! Boxer! 
More on the Carpentier order — ladies' man and 
all that. Come on, let's have a little round! 
[He jumps to his feet^ pulls up his sleeves^ and 
begins to make passes.] Come on! I'll give you 
lief to punch me a little just for practice. [He 
advances in bellicose manner^ grinning grimly, 

171 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

The Other Young Man looks amazed and frightened^ 
cringing back into his chair,] Come, stand up, 
like a man, the real fighter you are! [He gives 
the Other Young Man a light punch in the ribs and 
hovers over him, lowering. The Other Young Man 
crouches and coughs and chokes from the punch. 
Just then the front door bangs. The Young Man 
jumps back and stands facing the door^ his hands 
still clenched. The Other Young Man takes out his 
handkerchiefs continues to cough^ tries to pull him- 
self together. No one comes.] 

Other Young Man. You'd better sit down. 

Young Man. YouVe got a nice, rich, juicy, 
cigarette cough, haven't you? 

Other Young Man. Don't — [coughing] — don't 
make a fool of yourself. 

Young Man. Or pulp out of you. Maybe I 
will before I'm through. [He turns and walks to 
the window, comes back, lights a cigarette and 
throws himself into a chair, A few moments of 
silence follow, with occasional spasmodic coughs 
from the Other Young Man,] 

Other Young Man. Better — keep your wit — 
till you need it more. That time may come. 

Young Man. You don't say? [He sits in 
silence f little while. Finally a light breaks over 
his face, as he is evidently thinking of something 
which delights him much, and he breaks into a 
smile \ Say, I've got to tell you. There's — there's 
an engagement. 

Other Young Man. You said before that 
you had a date with her. 

172 



WHEN TWO^S NOT COMPANY 

Young Man. Yes, I know. But — I don't 
mean that. I — mean — we're engaged. 

Other Young Man {getting back some of his 
sang-froid]. Your more elegant way of saying 
again that you have a date with her. 

Young Man. No, I don't mean that. A date's 
one thing — this is quite another. I mean — oh, I 
mean that she's engaged to be married to me. 

Other Young Man. You scarcely expect me 
to believe that, do you? 

Young Man. Well, I don't see why you 
shouldn't. 

Other Young Man. For two very good and 
sufficient reasons. First, because you haven't 
hesitated to stretch the truth about having an 
appointment with her here this afternoon, and 
second, and more conclusively, because she is 
engaged to be married to me. 

Young Man [bursting into loud and long 
laughter]. By gum, that's the funniest thing I 
ever heard! 

Other Young Man. I don't see why it's 
funny that a girl should be engaged to be married 
to me. 

Young Man. Oh, yes — ha-ha — it is! 

Other Young Man [bristling]. Why shouldn't 
a girl be engaged to me? 

Young Man. No reason at all why a girl 
shouldn't — any old gander can find some sort of 
goose — but Elaine isn't a goose, and she couldn't 
be engaged to you, because she's engaged to me. 

Other Young Man [sarcastically]. Nobody 
seems to be aware of it but you. 

173 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Young Man. Of course, it hasn't been an- 
nounced yet — it's a secret. 

Other Young Man. So well kept that no- 
body knows it but you — not even the girl herself. 

Young Man. Oh, she knows it all right. It 
would be conceited for me to boast or anything 
like that, but she is — I mean we are very happy. 
We have been for the past month. 

Other Young Man. If she ever was engaged 
to you — which I doubt — she isn't now. 

Young Man. Why, man, a month ago she 
promised to marry me. 

Other Young Man. In the meantime, then, 
she changed her mind. Two weeks ago she 
promised to be my wife. 

Young Man. Oh, Hells-Bells, she did nothing 
of the sort, jumping to his feet.] 

Other Young Man I tell you, she did. 

Young Man. W^ell, then, she was just flirting 
with you, fooling with you. Or else — she's so 
soft-hearted she wouldn't hurt a fly— she just 
pretended to give in to let you down easy, couldn't 
stand to see your disappointment. 

Other Young Man. Don't try to deceive 
yourself. She has always been perfectly sincere 
with me. 

Young Man. Humph! How do you account 
for it that she didn't break off her engagement 
to m.e, then? 

Other Young Man. How do I know she 
didn't? 

Young Man. Well — [laughs angrily] — because 
Fm still here. 

174 



WHEN TWO^S NOT COMPANY 

Other Young Man. Probably — she's so ten- 
der-hearted — she couldn't bear to hurt you by 
telling you she had changed her mind. 

Young Man. Oh, changed her mind nothing! 
Why, we've been planning. We didn't tell any- 
body, because we wanted to keep it a secret. 
She's so romantic, she wanted to keep it a sacred 
secret just between ourselves. Not even her 
family know. But we talked about the future 
and made all sorts of plans. We agree about 
everything. Her tastes and mine are identical. 
We both love the country and hate apartment 
houses. We want to live as near the country as 
possible, out at the edge of town. I'm going to 
build a cozy little bungalow as soon as possible 
— my business will permit it now — and we'll 
have a regular home, not a box of a flat. We'll 
have a garden. She's so fond of flowers, and she'll 
work with the flowers and I'll 'tend the vegetables. 
I can get out early from the office nearly every 
day. Fresh vegetables — ripe tomatoes and green 
corn! Oh, boy! 

Other Young Man. Sounds dehghtfully bu- 
colic. 

Young Man. Maybe we'll keep a cow. 

Other Young Man. I would suggest a goat. 

Young Man. But that's farther off". 

Other Young Man. I guess so. 

Young Man. We've had lots of fun planning 
our wedding trip, too. I want to drive in my car 
and stop whenever we please and go wherever 
the spirit moves us. She agrees absolutely, but 
she has a hankering after Europe, too, so we play 

175 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

we're going there. Italy, if we're married in the 
fall, England, if the wedding comes off in the 
summer. 

Other Young Man. That's all very romantic. 
It's very amusing and rather pathetic. Humor 
and pathos are never far apart. Perhaps that 
was once what she tho'ught she'd like, but she 
has changed her mind. She and I have talked 
about life and how we can economize resources 
so as to get the best with the least expenditure 
of physical and mental effort. At the rate of 
speed people are living now and the heavy tax 
on one's time and energies, one must conserve the 
life-force. Elaine and I are going to live in an 
apartment, where so much is provided without 
having to think about it. The janitor looks 
after the furnace — I never could keep a furnace 
going — and the plumbing and papering and every- 
thing they do for you. 

Young Man. Sometimes they do, sometimes 
they do you. 

Other Young Man. We intend to be in a 
building that has a cafe, so that if we are without 
a maid Elaine will not have to go into the kitchen. 
And we will not keep an automobile. It is 
cheaper and more satisfactory to hire one when 
you need it. And, besides, so many of our friends 
have cars. 

Young Man. Ha-ha! That's economy for 
you! I suppose you think you will be having me 
take you out places? 

Other Young Man. I don't see why not — 
when you have got over your disappointment. 

176 



WHEN TWO'S NOT COMPANY 



Young Man. Disappointment? Oh, Hells- 
Bells! You don't think for a moment that I be- 
lieve all this stuff you've been saying? 

Other Young Man. It doesn't really matter 
to me whether you believe it or not. 

Young Man. Of all the consummate lying I 
never heard the beat! 

Other Young Man. What do you suppose I 
think of all you've been saying? Well, I would 
hate to tell you, but I don't think your story 
would get by any jury. 

Young Man. Oh, you and your juries! I bet 
you never had a case. My patience is just about 
worn out. 

Other Young Man. You've drugged mine. 
Young Man. Are you going to stay till she 
comes ? 

Other Young Man. Certainly. It won't be 
long now. 

Young Man. Well, so am I. [He gets up and 
walks to and fro. The Other Young Man sits 
watching him for a few moments y then goes over to 
the table and picks up the evening newspaper. He 
turns over the sheets languidly and with no interest. 
There is heard nothing but the rustle of the paper 
and the footsteps of the Young Man as he walks 
about. After a little time the Young Man is stand- 
ing looking out of the window when the Other Young 
Man starts^ sits bolt upright and is absorbed in the 
paper which he holds with trembling hands. The 
Young Man turns about and looks at the other^ be- 
coming interested in his very evident excitement.] 
12 177 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Young Man [coming closer]. What's the mat- 
ter with you? 

Other Young Man [with a starts looking at the 
other]. I — oh, I think Til go. 

Young Man. What made you change your 
mind so suddenly? 

Other Young Man. Oh, nothing. 

Young Man. Yes, there was. You read 
something in the paper that got you. What 
was it? 

Other Young Man. Oh, nothing. Nothing 
at all. 

Young Man. Yes, there was. 

Other Young Man. No, not at all. I must go. 

Young Man. No, you don't. You don't stir 
till you tell me what it was. 

Other Young Man. Well, if you must have 
it, it's this. [Reads from the paper.] "Mr. and 
Mrs. Robert Thomas Gallagher announce the 
engagement of their daughter, Elaine, to Mr. 
Henry Irving Robertson. The wedding will take 
place in June. This afternoon Miss Elaine is 
telling the happy news to a few of her most in- 
timate friends at a tea given her by — " 

Young Man [interrupting]. My word! You're 
making this up! 

Other Young Man. I wish I were. 

Young Man. I don't believe it. 

Other Young Man. See for yourself. [Hands 
him the paper, which he seizes with frantic hands 
and reads \ 

Young Man. Good God! There must be 
some mistake. 

178 



WHEN TWO^S NOT COMPANY 

Other Young Man. There couldn't be. A 
thing like this is authentic. 

Young Man, But newspapers lie so. 

Other Young Man. Not about this sort of 
thing. There's nothing to be gained. 

Young Man. You think it's true, then.^ 

Other Young Man. I wish I could think 
otherwise. 

Young Man. So that's where she is — at a tea 
announcing her engagement to Harry instead of 
keeping her engagement here with me. 

Other Young Man [grtm/y]. Instead of keep- 
ing her engagement here with me. 

Young Man [looking at his companion in misery 
suddenly and searchingly]. Dick, honest to God, 
were you on the level? 

Other Young Man. I swear I was. What 
about you? 

Young Man. Oh, Fm too much of a fool to 
make up a lie. But why, why, when I asked her 
if I could come here today, did she say "yes"? 

Other Young Man [with a twisted smile]. 
Because she is too tender-hearted to say "no." 
[He gets up.] 

Young Man. My — my heart's thumping so 
it feels as if it would jump out of my chest. 

Other Young Man. I — I'm trembling like a 
leaf. 

Young Man. Jove, but I — Fve been an ass. 

Other Young Man. We've been a pair of 
them. Come along. [He takes the arm of the 
Young Man and they start slowly to go out, when 
the Young Man pulls back.] 

^19 



TH IRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Young Man. Wait a minute. 

Other Young Man. What do you want? 

Young Man [going hack to the table]. I want to 
see the name of that guy that wrote "Paradise 
Lost." 

[Westminster chimes ring in the hall.\ 

[Curtain.] 



i8o 



PETER DONELLY. 

PERSONS: 

Mrs. Allen. 

Clarissa Allen, her daughter, 
Elizabeth, Clarissa s cousin. 
Peter Donelly. 

Time: The Present. 

yrhe action takes place in the very comfortable 
and well-to-do library of some very nice people of 
a Middle-West city. There is evidence of past^ 
present^ and future abundant ''^'means'' to buy all 
that a properly constituted family needs. There 
are the usual deep leather chairs and couches 
suggestive of the process of sleep rather than of 
active mental effort. The heavy walnut book- 
cases of forty years back contain smooth rows of 
sets in half-leather binding — Scotty Dickens^ 
Thackeray y George Eliot; Continental culture rep- 
resented by Balzac; all the standard English 
poets with crushed Levant backs ^ the New England 
group and a little blue Poe; from these there is a 
third of a century jump to a large sprinkling of 
social and economic subjects in dark blue and 
brown cloth and a ^''Leaves of Grass*^ in green. 
The entire room rests in an atmosphere of lux- 
urious sobriety. There is a convenient telephone 
stand and by it a comfortable chair. In the 
chair sits a lady of sixty years or more of age, 
in an immaculate black gown.] 

i8i 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Mrs. Allen {telephoning], I called you up, 
my dear, because I am in such trouble! Such 
trouble! It is horrible! I am nearly crazy! I 
feel as if I should scream ! But I must not scream 
— I must not let the servants know. I must be 
self-controlled and strong- — I must set my lips 
with firm determination. I realise that I must 
resolve myself into a tower of strength, but, Oh, 
my dear, I have been weeping so! That is why 
I did not call you up before [sobs] — I couldn't 
speak for sobs. I know it must seem cruel to 
weigh you down with my troubles, but I must 
talk to someone or I shall go raving mad. What? 
[Pause.] Oh, it is about Clarissa, of course. 
What other interest in life have I but my daughter? 
What other interest can a mother have but her 
child? [Pause,] Oh, no, there hasn't been an 
accident and she isn't ill — heaven knows, it might 
be better if she were, for then at least she could 
be kept at home. You haven't seen the after- 
noon paper? The home edition? The home 
edition which goes into every home in the city 
so that everyone will know- — every one ! [Her voice 
almost breaking. Pause.] Oh, no, Clarissa isn't 
here — I couldn't be talking to you this way if 
she were. She has gone to a bridge party. You 
know she plays a wretched game, and she never 
by any possibility goes to a party if she can 
avoid it. She is utterly stupid about bridge, and 
I never ask her even to make a fourth hand in 
our own little games if I can get anyone else. 
But she seizes this most inopportune time to go 
to a bridge party. I believe she did it purposely. 

182 



PETER DONELLY 



I don't see how she could — I don't see how she 
had the face or the heart to, but she did, she just 
went calmly where she will have to meet all her 
friends, just went there as if nothing had hap- 
pened or were about to happen, and left me to 
bear all the disgrace and opprobrium here alone. 
I don't understand Clarissa, I never did under- 
stand her. I, a mother, have to acknowledge 
that I don't understand my own child! Clarissa 
is headstrong — I wouldn't say it to anyone but 
you, my dear, but she is^ she is headstrong, stub- 
born, arrogant, obstinate, she has an invincible 
determination. She always has been hard to 
conquer. As a baby she would fight her bottle. 
And then she would go to college instead of go- 
ing to Europe to be finished. She never cared for 
music and the languages. She always liked 
mannish studies. And her reading is so — ad- 
vanced. Immoral persons like Walt Whitman 
and all sorts of queer, unknown anarchists who 
write about politics and philosophy. I was 
brought up on the classics, and when I want di- 
version I read a little of Margaret Deland or Mrs. 
Humphrey Ward. And she has always chosen 
such queer people for friends, Polish Jews and 
strange creatures who are interested in what she 
calls social work. She calls it social work when 
she really means charity. Social! In my day a 
social meant a pleasant gathering of the congre- 
gation for an ice-cream or strawberry supper in the 
basement of the church. And I can't see how the 
word can mean anything but something connected 
with society, the people one knows or knows about, 

183 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 



whose names occur in the social columns of the 
daily press. But she applies it to philanthropic 
activities, and chooses as her friends the strangest 
people — not merely common, but of the very 
lowest classes. She invites them to her home, 
and Vm sure they are just as uncomfortable as 
I am. I have positively been ashamed to have 
the butler see them eat with their knives and 
make horrible noises over their soup. What.'* 
[Pauses.] I haven't told you yet? I thought you 
had looked at the paper while I was talking and 
had read it, and I was just beginning to explain 
how the horrible thing came about. For if she 
hadn't meddled with those horrible people she 
never in this world would have met him and it 
wouldn't have occurred. What? [Pauses.] Why, 
it is announced that Clarissa is engaged to Peter 
Donelly. [Pauses.] You are relieved! [Pauses.] 
Why, my dear, it couldn't have been worse! You 
don't think that my daughter! — Oh, my dear, 
that couldn't have happened! But think of my 
daughter marrying Peter Donelly! Why, he is 
a councilman and the owner of that unspeakable 
Lakeside Park! That is how she became ac- 
quainted with him. She was working in this re- 
form business — philanthropy is what it really is — 
and went to call on councilmen and all sorts of 
low politicians. She seemed to be prepossessed in 
his favor from the start. And, of course, he sought 
every chance to be in her society. It isn't often 
that a councilman can meet a lady. It never 
occurred to me as possible that she would think 
of him in the light of a suitor. Why, my dear, 

184 



PETER DONELLY 



his clothing and his manners! He has come up 
from the gutter — the very gutter! But — would 
you believe it? — she seemed pleased with his at- 
tentions. She never has had a lover before — I 
suppose that is the reason. Clarissa has never 
cared for young men and young men are not 
going to spend their time courting a girl who 
thinks of nothing but unhappy scrubwomen and 
slum babies instead of them. Young men like 
a little attention — I have always told Clarissa so. 
They are afraid of strong-minded women — I never 
wanted Clarissa to go to college. And they are 
repelled by a masculine woman. I have told 
Clarissa time and again that if she wants to vote 
she oughtn't to say so, she oughtn't to let any- 
one know. Clarissa is a strong-minded suffragist 
you know. Oh, I wish her father had lived, for 
she needs a strong hand, and I have never been 
able to manage her. With her social work! And 
her picking up creatures like Peter Donelly! She 
must have had it put in the paper herself. It 
says that Mrs. Jerome Allen [reading from the 
newspaper] announces the engagement of her 
daughter, Clarissa, to Mr. Peter Donelly. / an- 
nounce it, indeed! I ^d-nounce it! What? [Pauses.] 
Oh, yes, she told me all about it. I have wept 
and pled with her. I have told her it would kill 
me. I shall never live through it — with my del- 
icate health. But she is so obstinate. And of 
course I never dreamed that she would really 
do it. He has been hanging around constantly for 
a month back, driving her out in his big car, tak- 
ing her to dinner and to the theatre. Clarissa 

185 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

has never had anything of the sort before, and I 
suppose it has just taken her off her feet. Oh, 
yes, he has plenty of money, all stolen from the 
tax-payers, doubtless, or made in other shady 
ways. Oh, my dear, and he has lavished it on 
Clarissa. Such flowers as he has sent her you never 
saw! RoFes or orchids every day and bunches of 
violets so large that no decent girl could wear 
them. Our house has looked as if we were having 
a continuous ball. Such ill-bred ostentation! 
And the dinners he orders for her at the Levington 
Hotel! He always invites me — I suppose she 
makes him, for he never would have the good- 
breeding to do it himself. I went once, and you 
would have thought it was the Princess of Wales 
he was entertaining. He sends her tickets to all 
sorts of things — of course most of them she doesn't 
care for. And his big car — I believe he has two — 
is at her disposal all the time. [Pauses.] Why 
yes, it has been going on for a month or so, I told 
you. [Pauses.] Break it up in the beginning? 
Why, of course, my dear, I tried to, but what 
could I do with Clarissa? She is so obstinate, so 
determined, so headstrong! But I shall oppose 
it, oh, I shall set my face like flint against it! 
And I want you and all my friends to help me. 
I want you to talk to her. I believe she went to 
that bridge party out of pure bravado, just in 
wilful determination to outface society. Oh, my 
dear, there is the front door, someone is coming 
in. It may be Clarissa, I must ring off. [S/ie 
hastily hangs up the receiver^ unfolds the paper ^ 
and appears to be reading it when Clarissa enters 

1 86 



PETER DONELLY 



the room with her cousin^ Elizabeth. Clarissa is a 
small person of thirty -five ^ rather neutral in coloring 
and general appearance^ quiet and demure^ gentle 
and unassuming^ with soft, sweet eyes, and creating 
an impression of anything but obstinacy and strong- 
mindedness. She seems, calm and unperturbed in 
marked contrast to the nervousness and excitement 
of her mother and cousin \ 

Clarissa. Well, Mother, here is Elizabeth. 
She has invited herself home with me to dinner. 

Elizabeth. How do you do. Aunt Julia? I 
don't know that I can stay to dinner, but I wanted 
to come — I felt that I must — 

Clarissa. Wonders will never cease. I took a 
prize. Mother. Maybe your efforts haven't been 
in vain after all and I'll turn into a star bridge 
player yet. All your arduous coaching ought to 
bring success. Well, lucky at cards, unlucky in 
love. Elizabeth, will you take your hat off 
upstairs or down here? 

Elizabeth. Oh, I don't think I'll take my 
hat off. I didn't really invite myself to dinner. 

Clarissa. Oh, do stay. It is so much nicer 
to have four at table than three, and Mr. Donelly 
is going to be here. \She launches this bombshell 
in a quiet, matter-of-fact way as if Mr. Donelly s 
presence at her mother s board were an every-day 
affair. The others start and stare at her, their 
breath taken quite away.] 

Mrs. Allen. Clarissa! You haven't invited 
that man this evening? 

Elizabeth. Clarissa, it was exactly to talk to 
you about that man that I came home with you. 

187 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Clarissa [slowly and gently]. I thought so. I 
thought I might as well introduce the subject. 

Elizabeth [somewhat dumbfounded]. Well, what 
could you expect? You can't suppose people 
will stand idly by and watch you commit social 
suicide without making some protest — can you? 
Aunt Julia, you haven't given your consent, have 
you? In spite of the announcement in the paper, 
I couldn't believe you would. 

Mrs. Allen. / give my consent, Elizabeth, to 
such a misalliance, you know I never would! 
I only hope other people will have the discrim- 
ination to realise that I haven't and that I never 
sent the announcement to the paper. Unfor- 
tunately everybody wuU read it, but I don't want 
them to think I had anything to do with it. I 
hope your mother and father will realise I had 
nothing to do with it. Of course they will see it 
in the paper — everybody will read it. [In a 
tearful voice.] 

Elizabeth. Everybody has read it. Someone 
who had seen it came to the bridge party this 
afternoon and the news spread like wildfire. In 
ten minutes everybody knew and everybody was 
talking — except when Clarissa was around, and 
even then they were whispering and talking in 
low tones behind her back and I was so afraid 
she would hear. [Clarissa looks at her in mild 
inquiry and Elizabeth glances at her.] And yet I 
realised she would have to know what people 
think about it and how they are talking, and I 
made up my mind then and there that I would 
take the bull by the horns [looking sternly at little 

i88 



PETER DONELLY 



Clarissa] and come home with her and tell her 
and strive with her to persuade her to give up 
this strangely perverted and mad infatuation. 
Clarissa [gently]. It isn't a mad infatuation. 
Elizabeth. It is impossible for me to see my 
own cousin, a girl of my own set, one I have 
known since babyhood, played dolls with and gone 
to school with, the daughter of my own mother's 
brother, a girl of my own class, step down and 
out from where she belongs and marry a creature 
of another world completely. 

Mrs. Allen. Oh, thank you, Elizabeth! 
Thank you for coming to my rescue. Thank you 
for making things so clear. 

Elizabeth. Aunt Julia, how did it happen? 
Mrs. Allen. Oh, he is a councilman, you 
know, and she met him slumming. {Clarissa looks 
rather surprised and smiles.] 

Elizabeth. I don't exactly see how she could 
meet a councilman slumming. 

Mrs. Allen. Oh, it was about garbage or the 
segregated district or something she had to con- 
sort with low politicians about. I think he hyp- 
notized her at the start. 

Elizabeth. Hypnotized! Nonsense! Clar- 
issa isn't a person to be hypnotized. Our family 
aren't that weakling sort. 

Clarissa [always gently]. Thank you, Eliza- 
beth. 

Elizabeth. But I don't see how it started, 
how she could have anything to do with him. 
One doesn't consort with low politicians. 

Mrs. Allen. Well, he began with little at- 

189 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

tentionSj sending his big car for her and tickets 
to places. 

Elizabeth [scornfully]. I suppose as the owner 
of that unspeakable Lakeside Park, he gets 
passes to everything. Cheap sort of attention. 

Mrs. Allen. Well, he hasn't been cheap 
exactly. 

Clarissa. Thank you. Mother. 

Mrs. Allen [scowling]. Oh, he has lavished 
his money in the grossest, most vulgar ostenta- 
tion. Dinners and the theatre, flowers — orchids 
and dozens of roses, and candy — he never sends 
less than a ten-pound box. 

Elizabeth. He must think Clarissa has an 
appetite. 

Mrs. Allen. He only does it to show off, of 
course. Clarissa isn't used to such things. She 
has been brought up in an atmosphere of good 
taste and refinement, as you know, Elizabeth. 

Clarissa [weakly]. Would you like me to go 
out of the room while you discuss me? If it 
would leave you freer to say what you like — 

Mrs. Allen. Discuss you? Oh, my dear 
child, I wouldn't discuss you with anybody. I 
am your mother and a proper mother doesn't 
discuss her daughter even with members of the 
family — hardly even with the minister. 

Elizabeth. We are not discussing you, Clar- 
issa. 

Clarissa. It rather seemed as though you 
were. 

Elizabeth. Well, we were not. I came for 
the sole purpose of talking to you, to show you 

190 



PETER DONELLY 



what an awful mistake you have made which 
you don't seem to see and to induce you to break 
off before it is too late. 

Clarissa [sinking into a chair]. How can you 
break off a mistake? Go on. 

Elizabeth. I don't for the life of me see how 
you could do this thing. A girl who, as your 
mother says, has been brought up in an atmos- 
phere of good taste and refinement. Why, you 
are one of us, Clarissa. You are, or were, an 
aristocrat. [Clarissa gazes at her in mild interest^ 

Mrs. Allen. That is just it. Her father was 
a member of the Order of Cincinnatus and I am 
a Colonial Dame. In our families, Elizabeth, the 
men all went to Harvard and the girls to Europe 
to be educated and then interested themselves 
in church work and charities. To think of my 
daughter marrying a low politician! You know, 
Elizabeth, no gentleman goes into politics now 
except perhaps a college president becomes gov- 
ernor to purify the office. 

Elizabeth. If she marries him — but she isn't 
going to [sitting down opposite Clarissa]^ she will 
commit social suicide. Why, people can't en- 
tertain him, he would be like a bull in a china 
shop. Fancy him at a dinner party! 

Clarissa. Well, / can still eat. 

Elizabeth. But you wouldn't be invited alone. 
Husbands and wives don't go about separately in 
society. 

Clarissa. Perhaps it would add to the gayety 
of things if they did. I have often thought so. 
But no, society harnesses them together and that 

191 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

is why they get to hating each other so, always 
starting out together, always going home to- 
gether. 

Elizabeth. Why, Clarissa, who would ever 
have thought that you had such radical ideas! 
But other people haven't — nice people. I sup- 
pose you got all that going to college. I am glad 
I didn't go. And with such a husband you would 
be ostracized. Nobody would invite you to 
dinner. 

Clarissa. I haven't noticed people falling 
over themselves to invite me to dinner, anyhow, 
Elizabeth. I am not exactly what you would call 
a social lion. 

Mrs. Allen. But, my dear child, that is all 
your own fault. You have never cared for 
society. You have never seemed to enjoy the 
people and pursuits of your own class and have 
preferred to consort with outlandish creatures 
instead. 

Elizabeth. You have always been so queer, 
Clarissa, and that is why you haven't always 
been included in things the girls were getting up. 
I know they haven't meant to leave you out, but 
— well, you know you're quiet or else you like to 
talk about deep subjects and you make people 
feel uncomfortable. Men don't Hke a girl who 
is quiet and supposed to have views. They don't 
know what she's thinking about. They just like 
to eat and dance and play cards and golf and 
motor. They like to do things and you just 
think. 

Clarissa \sighin^, I didn't know I did. 

192 



PETER DONELLY 



Elizabeth. But when it comes to a matter 
of your marrying outside of your class, they will 
resent it. They won't stand by and permit it. 
If you could have heard the things the girls said 
this afternoon. 

Clarissa \scarcely audible]. I did hear. 

Elizabeth. Well, then you know how out- 
rageous they think it is. Why, if you must get 
married — I didn't know before that you were so 
crazy to — [Clarissa looks at her in wide-eyed aston- 
ishment.] — lay your trap for Bob Andrews or 
Clarence Doolittle or anybody in preference to 
that hodcarrier. These men are wild as you 
make 'em and drink like fish, but at least they're 
gentlemen. I haven't any objection to a self- 
made man, per se, if they gradually work out of 
their class into an upper stratum of society like 
Professor Rogers, for instance, whose father kept 
a little corner grocery, but he went to night 
school and studied and finally became a historian 
and now can play golf with the best of them. But 
this man of yours never tried to get out of his 
class. He has never had a golf club in his hand, 
he has never contributed to the symphony con- 
cert orchestra fund — I know that — he never 
bought an opera ticket in his life. 

Mrs. Allen. If you could see him! 

Elizabeth. I suppose he looks the part — a 
common Irish politician. 

Mrs. Allen. My dear, his appearance is per- 
fectly impossible and, as you say, he will never 
be different, he isn't the sort to change, and his 
manners are, if possible, worse than his clothing. 

13 193 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

He tucks his napkin in his shirt-front at dinner — 
he even tucks it between his collar and his chin. 
He sucks his soup and he gurgles in his coffee. 
He talks to the waiter as if they were bosom 
friends. His voice is so loud and awful like the 
bellowing of a bull. He murders the King's 
English and uses so much low and inordinate 
slang that it is quite impossible to undertsand 
his meaning. 

Elizabeth. If he has any. 

Mrs. Allen. He shakes hands like a gorilla — 
I have seen him, though I have never offered him 
my hand — and his favorite attitude is to stand 
with his thumbs stuck in the arm-holes of his 
waistcoat. And, oh, his clothing! My dear, he 
wears huge check suits, gaudy waistcoats, enor- 
mous rings, and a flashy diamond pin, red — bril- 
liant red cravats, yellow gloves, and a bright 
green hat. He — 

Clarissa. Oh, don't talk so loud, please don't! 
I heard the maid open the front door and let 
someone in. 

Elizabeth. Well, nothing could be so loud as 
what we are talking about. 

[The subject of their conversation enters in all 
his powerful and masculine exuberance. He 
is dressed as they have described him and 
carries the bright green hat in his hand. He is 
an Irishman^ big and strong and gay^ with red 
cheeksy a happy smile, and a comfortable air 
of sureness of his ground. He advances 
quickly and with a light, firm step to Clarissa 

194 



PETER DONELLY 



and fairly beams like a broad, bright sun as 
he takes her hand.] 

Peter. I guess I'm a little bit early, my girl, 
but I had an extra quarter of an hour and I just 
couldn't stay away. 

Clarissa [smiling back at him tenderly and with 
relief as to one who finds no fault with her, in whose 
happy depths she is all right, a perfect thing]. I 
am so glad you came. 

Peter. Are you now? [JVith a loud laugh. 
He puts his green hat under his arm and takes her 
two hands in both of his and swings and plays with 
them. Then with a quick glance.] And here is the 
mother, too. [He turns from Clarissa and strides 
with outstretched hand to Mrs. Allen.] How-de-do, 
ma'am? 

Mrs. Allen [coldly glaring at him, not offering 
her hand]. I am quite well. 

Peter [a little crestfallen]. That's good. I'm 
glad to hear it, ma'am. [He looks at his despised 
hand, then strokes his lips thoughtfully with it. 
With a sidelong glance at Clarissa for inspiration \ 
I guess I've butted into a family party. I wouldn't 
want to be interruptin'. 

Clarissa. Oh, no, Peter, this is my cousin, 
Miss Worthington. Elizabeth, this is Mr. Donelly. 

Peter [advancing again with a quick stride and 
outstretched hand]. Pleased to meet ye, ma'am. 
Any relation or friend of Clarissa's is a friend of 
mine. 

Elizabeth [coldly, curtly, insolently, without 
offering her hand]. How-do-you-do. 

^9S 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Peter \looks at Elizabeth steadily in surprise 
and inquiry for a moment^ then a queer little gleam 
of a smile comes into his eyes as he withdraws his 
hand and folds his arms] I'm fine, ma'am. I 
always enjoy elegant health. \After an icy mo- 
ment^ he clears his throat.] It's fine weather we're 
having — bright and sunny, though you might say 
a little chilly in the house. [With a furtive, broad 
wink at Clarissa.] Maybe it's good for a man to 
get hit by a cold draught now and then, keeps 
him in his place all right, makes him realise he 
don't own the earth and the stars and everything 
in between. For myself, though, I never did care 
about hot air, always said cold was healthier. 
[A pause. Peter looks round at the ladies, who 
stand immovable, Mrs. Allen and Elizabeth still 
cold and glaring, Clarissa becoming more nervous 
and excited.] Hum! As I was saying, it's bully 
weather for driving. If a man has an hour or so 
to spare, it's grand to be free to get out and hit 
the road at about forty miles an hour. I never 
go faster — it ain't safe. Forty is my limit. But 
driving in your own car sure is the way to travel. 
I often wish I could make my trips to the capital 
that way — but I can't spare the time. The roads 
are good, too. The roads all round here in this 
neck of the woods are first rate now. And the 
woods are all dressed up in their fall clothes — 
pretty as a girl fixed up for a dance. I guess you 
ladies like a spin now and then, most ladies do. 
We'll have to go for one some fine afternoon. 
Nothing would tickle me more than to give any 
of Clarissa's friends a good time. My car can 

196 



PETER DONELLY 



take us four and three or four others— the more 
the merrier — as they say — and when we come 
back we can have a nice little dinner at the Lev- 
ington and then take in a show. Some fun, eh? 
Most ladies can stand a show, too, judging by the 
way they flock to a Saturday afternoon matinee. 
I guess they like a show same as they like a good 
spin and a httle dinner. A nice, hot little dinner 
introduced with a cocktail — a good cold Man- 
hattan — served where you know the waiter and 
the management. [Seeing Elizabeth frown.] Or, 
of course, we can omit the drinks if you are tee- 
totalers. Some ladies are, and I know when they 
are they're awful touchy about it. I wouldn't 
do nothing to offend your feelings. And we'll 
omit the drinks forevermore. Though I will say 
some ladies do seem to enjoy a cocktail, and 
from my observation I don't think female suffrage 
is responsible for prohibition. Not me. Would 
you believe it? Clarissa has made me believe 
women ought to vote. Though I wouldn't have 
my political opinions on that subject get round in 
my ward. I'm just telling it in the family. But 
we're getting off the subject. Let's us plan for 
our little party for the show. What do you say? 
What's the matter with tomorrow night? 

Mrs. Allen [frigidly]. I have never been to a 
circus in my life. I always supposed circuses 
were for children and the proletariat. 

Clarissa. He means the theatre, mother. 

Peter. Haw, haw! I call everything in the 
stage line a show. I thought everybody did. But 
if you ain't ever attended a circus, ma'am, you've 

197 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

missed half your life. I wish I might have the 
joy of escorting you to the next one. I always 
take a bunch of kids every spring — youngsters 
from the fourth ward — that's my old lay-out. 
They call it Donelly's Treat, and they just do 
fight — cussin' and kickin' — which one shall hold 
my hand. There's pop-corn and peanuts for 
them and the elephants. They come all dressed 
up in their best Sunday clothes, faces shining with 
soap, hair slick. Believe me, they sure do have 
some good time. It would do your blessed old 
heart good to see 'em, ma'am, and I think you 
would enjoy headin' the procession. 

Mrs. Allen. You are quite mistaken, Mr. 
Donelly, I should not enjoy heading a procession. 

Peter. Wouldn't you? Well, maybe not. 
Maybe a show — I mean a play — is more in your 
line. I know Clarissa takes to plays like a duck 
to water, don't you, my girl? Like daughter, like 
mother, maybe, though I don't really guess so. 
Why, I believe Clarissa could stand a show, I 
mean a play, almost every night in the week. 
And I figured it out most ladies can. The funny 
thing is that they like deep subjects. Now a 
man, he goes to a show just for entertainment, 
same as he goes to the races, only not so exciting. 
Why, I bet you if men was allowed to bet on how 
a play comes out, the theatres would be just 
packed. It's a wonder some theatrical guy don't 
think of it and start a book — it would triple his 
receipts in no time, even if he did it on the square. 
But of course ladies don't care about that — they 
ain't sporty and don't like funny plays. In fact, 

198 



PETER DONELLY 



ladies are very serious-minded people. No offence 
to the ladies — I'm sure — it's only the difference 
between 'em and men folks. For me, I get as 
much fun outside the theatre as in. I think 
people in real life are as interesting as any show 
— play, I mean. In fact, I get my fun studying 
human nature. It's the most interesting job in 
the world watching how folks work — I mean the 
mechanism. They all have their ambitions and 
their prejudices and if you study 'em enough you 
get to know just what they're going to do. If 
you touch a button here, it sets some set of wheels 
going, and if you pull a wire there, it sets off 
something else. Believe me, it sure is some game 
— and some folks call it politics. [He laughs 
heartily^ then, seeing the others unmoved, he gazes 
at them interrogatively and sobers down.] Excuse 
me, ladies, I guess it's me that's monopolizing 
the conversation. 

Elizabeth. Clarissa, we haven't finished our 
interview. If this — this gentleman will permit 
me. 

Peter. Why, sure, I didn't know I was in- 
terrupting. 

Clarissa. Oh, Elizabeth, won't you — won't 
you postpone it to some more opportune time? 

Elizabeth. It can't be postponed. It must 
be settled now. You haven't been made to see. 
You haven't promised anything. 

Clarissa. Oh, I know you are doing this out 
of the goodness of your heart, Elizabeth, I know 
you mean it for a kindness, but it isn't kind, it is 
quite, quite cruel. 

199 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Elizabeth. Cruel? Do you think I enjoy it? 
Is it pleasant to have to explain to a friend that 
she is making a fool of herself? To try to keep 
her from making a horrible, an irreparable mis- 
take! 

Clarissa. Oh, please don't, please hush! 

Elizabeth. Clarissa, come away, come home 
with me! [Moving towards her.] 

Clarissa. Oh, I can't! Don't you see? Peter 
has come to dinner. 

Peter. Well, I wouldn't want to butt in on 
any unfinished business. I can eat anywhere. I 
ain't particular. 

Elizabeth [taking her by the arm]. My dear, 
you come home with me to dinner. 

Clarissa [pulling away from her]. It is quite 
quite impossible. Won't you stay to dinner 
with us? 

Peter. This is a funny business. 

Elizabeth [starting slightly and looking at him 
in amazement]. Aunt Julia, I don't believe he 
knows. I don't believe he understands. I don't 
believe he comprehends the situation in the least. 
Clarissa evidently hasn't told him. 

Peter. I guess I don't. I guess if there's a 
situation I'm all in the dark there. If you've 
got a flash-light you might turn it on, ma'am. 

Elizabeth. And you. Aunt Julia, you haven't 
yourself made the situation clear to him, have 
you? 

Mrs. Allen. Oh, I have in every way pos- 
sible. Maybe not just in so many words, but by 

200 



PETER DONELLY 



my manner, my refusals, my — oh, what can a 
lady do in her own house? 

Elizabeth. You see, Mr. Donelly, you put 
Mrs. Allen at a disadvantage by coming here. 

Peter. You mean I ain't wanted? 

Elizabeth. That is putting it rather crudely 
— but — 

Peter. I guess I am crude. 

Elizabeth. Mrs. Allen never invited you 
here. You do not come by her invitation. You 
must see how things are. 

Peter. I'm beginning to. 

Elizabeth. Clarissa got into this affair with- 
out thought, she has been carried away, she 
hasn't known what people would say, how they 
are talking now, how much her family and friends 
are opposed to it. 

Mrs. Allen. Opposed? I have opposed it — I 
do oppose it and will oppose it. 

Elizabeth. You see? Her mother will never 
give her consent to this marriage. 

Mrs. Allen. Consent? Oh, never, never! 
I cannot lose Clarissa. It would kill me. Mrs. 
Worthington says I am quite right, that I must 
set my face with grim determination like flint 
against it. They all say so. My friends are all 
supporting me. I cannot lose Clarissa. It would 
kill me! 

Peter. But you wouldn't be losing her. 

Mrs. Allen. Oh, it would be worse than los- 
ing her. I should rather see my daughter in her 
grave than see her married to you. 

20I 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Peter [under his breath]. By gum! 

Elizabeth. We all feel that way, Aunt Julia. 
We are all with you. Father and Mother haven't 
heard of it yet, but I know what they will do — 
they will set their feet right down on it. For the 
sake of the family they will back you right up. 
All the aunts and uncles and cousins will, every- 
body will. Your friends this afternoon were all 
sympathetic. They all said you would have to 
stop it. And as for the others — oh, what they 
said! It was a scandal. 

Peter [aghast]. You mean people are talking 
about Clarissa? 

Elizabeth. Of course. I suppose it is impos- 
sible for a man like you to realise what you sub- 
ject a girl like Clarissa to. 

Clarissa. Oh, Elizabeth, don't! 

Peter. She'd best tell me, Clarissa. [To 
Elizabeth.] Go on. 

Elizabeth. No one dreamed her relations 
with you were anything but business and philan- 
thropic, so when the announcement of your en- 
gagement comes out, they say ugly things. 

Peter. Ugly things about her? 

Elizabeth. It's only natural. They talk out- 
rageously. 

Peter. It don't seem natural to me for ladies 
to talk outrageously. 

Elizabeth. Much you know about ladies. 

Peter. Anyhow, it ain't natural for anyone 
to talk scandal about a lady like Clarissa — it's 
damned blasphemy. If I hear any of it — well, 
they best come to me. I'll choke their mouths 

202 



PETER DONELLY 



and settle their hash. I won't stand for nothing 
said against my girl. 

Elizabeth. Oh, a lot you could do. You 
would better hold your tongue. You would only 
make matters worse. 

Peter. Me? 

Elizabeth. Don't you understand, you idiot, 
that it is just because of you that they are talk- 
ing about her? They ask why a girl of blue blood, 
of refinement, education, culture, why she should 
marry a boor like you— and they give nasty 
reasons. 

Peter [angri/y]. The devil they do! [fFith 
clenched teeth and fists \ I'd like to hear 'em! 

Elizabeth. You! You would better keep 
away. You would only hurt her by your inter- 
ference. You can only do more harm. You've 
done enough. 

Peter. I can't do nothing to protect my 
girl? 

Elizabeth. Don't you realise, you fool, that 
her friends resent you, that they will none of 
you? They won't touch you. If Clarissa marries 
you, it is the end of her. Her friends will try to 
prevent it, if they don't succeed they will be help- 
less. All they can do will be to drop her and they 
will drop her. She will be ostracized. 

Mrs. Allen. Nobody will invite her anywhere. 
She will have no society. She will lose caste. 

Elizabeth. They have begun already. Today 
the president of a woman's club who was going 
to appoint Clarissa chairman of a committee de- 
cided not to. And another woman struck her 

203 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

name off a list she was getting up for a bridge 
club. 

Peter. You mean if she marries me, she'll 
lose her friends? 

Elizabeth. Of course. A woman's social 
standing is gauged by her husband's — she can't 
rise above his. Her family and friends will never 
admit you to their social circle. You — a product 
of the gutter! 

Mrs. Allen. Oh, look at you — your clothing, 
your manners, the way you stand, you lout, you 
knave, you low politician, you boor! Oh, it will 
kill me! I am not strong — I never have been 
strong! It will break my heart and take my 
life! [She bursts into tears.] 

Elizabeth. It would kill her mother. 

Peter. I don't see whv it should kill her. 

Elizabeth. That is just it — you are too coarse- 
grained to see! But at least you ought to be able 
to comprehend that / know. / understand the 
situation as perfectly as it is impossible for you 
to understand it, and it is only left for you to 
take my word for it. You must. You've got to. 
It is the only thing left for you to do. This hor- 
rible thing would kill her mother. Aunt Julia 
would not survive it a year. 

Peter. You make it pretty hard, ma'am. 

Elizabeth. Hard? Do you think it is easy 
for me? Do you think I am enjoying it? To try 
to explain something incomprehensible to a rough, 
coarse-grained oaf like you? To try to get you 
to see that Clarissa would lose her social stand- 
ing — all that makes life worth while. All the 

204 



PETER DONELLY 



little pleasures and connections she has always 
enjoyed, the things and people she was born to 
and has always possessed — her friends that she 
would lose, one after another, the pleasures that 
would drop away, one after another, till there 
was nothing left — nothing — but you and her life 
with you, which in the end she could not possibly 
bear. She wasn't born for your life — she would 
hate it. She would have to give up all her own 
life for you and in the end she would hate you for 
it. I said it would kill her mother, and do you 
think she herself, Clarissa, could stand that? No, 
no daughter could. It would fill her with regret 
and hatred for you, the cause of it. It would 
wreck her. In the end it would kill Clarissa. 
Oh, it is monstrous — criminal — 

Peter [though he has reddened and become more 
and more excited^ is very quiet^ his face now be- 
ing full of suppressed emotion]. Wait! [Holding 
up his hand.] Don't say anything more. I've 
heard enough. You've made it clear. You 
maybe could have done it a Httle different, but 
anyhow you've done it. I guess I understand. 
I guess I've been a fool. I always was a hard 
worker, and so things came pretty easy and I 
guess I didn't know when to stop. Sooner or 
later a man always meets what he can't put over, 
and I didn't see when I got there. I hadn't sense 
enough to realise the difference between me and 
a real lady. I didn't know about the opposition 
of the family, and when I talked about them and 
the difference between her class and mine she said 
her mother's objection was just the natural ob- 

205 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

jection of a mother to anyone, and I hadn't the 
sense to see it was only Miss Allen's kindness of 
heart that made her say so to me. I thought I 
might give her a little something — my life and all 
IVe got. You see, I worship her. I thought I 
might be some good to her family and friends. 
I wanted to give her some pleasure in using me 
and my things and money, but I never thought 
of the other side — I never thought about her 
losing anything. All I thought about was what 
I could do for her. I never thought about her 
giving up things. I couldn't stand that. I 
wouldn't hurt her. You can depend on that. 
You can depend on me for that. I'll get out. I 
wouldn't come between her and her mother. I 
wouldn't want the old lady to suffer — much less 
her! I wouldn't come between them and all her 
home ties and all she's ever had. I'll go. I'd 
better go straight off. [Turning to Clarissa, who 
has been watching him intently and in utter amaze- 
ment?^ Good-bye, little girl. I guess — \his voice 
trembling and choking — I guess I better not shake 
hands. \For a second they gaze at each other, then 
without a word or sound, he turns away and starts 
to walk out. Clarissa gives a little low cry, runs to 
him, throws her arms about his neck.] 

Clarissa. Peter! What have you to say to 
me? Do you suppose I am going to let you go 
like this? Don't you know I care about you? 
Why do you think I promised to marry you? I 
did promise, you remember. Maybe, if you try 
hard enough, you'll remember the circumstances 
— and so did you promise to marry me. And I 

206 



PETER DONELLY 



am not going to let you break your promise. 
[She releases him^ but still holds his hand.] I am 
the person to decide this question, I'll have you 
to know. Do you suppose for one moment that 
I am going to permit two women to sit up and 
decide that I must not marry this man and this 
man to acquiesce in the decision and say they 
are perfectly right and he will not marry me! 
Why, Peter, you are a big booby to allow your- 
self to be so bullied by two women! But I am not 
or at least I am not going to allow myself to be 
bullied any longer. I have stood all I am going 
to stand. Mother and Elizabeth, I want you to 
realise that. I am not a child, I am a woman — 
and not a young one, either. I have chosen to 
marry Peter and I am going to do so, understand, 
because he is what I want — I want his love — 
because we respect each other and have some 
sort of tenderness and consideration for each 
other. [She drops his hand.] I know him and 
you don't. I want to tell you that though he 
may not have the wonderful blue blood in his 
veins that has given some of our relatives an 
interesting purple past, he has a brain in his head 
the like of which has not occurred in our beloved 
family for many generations. And if he can't 
play golf or wear a fraternity pin, he has a big 
heart that he wears on his sleeve, and a nobility 
that keeps him from injustice and rudeness. If 
marrying him is going to make people drop me, 
they'll have to drop me — and I don't think Fil 
feel the jar. 
Mrs. Allen [moaning]. Clarissa, Clarissa, my 

207 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

child, don't talk so! Don't use such coarse and 
vulgar language! 

Elizabeth. You don't know what you are 
saying — you are carrying on like an insane 
person. 

Clarissa. Insane nothing! I am doing the 
most sensible thing I ever did in my life. 

Elizabeth. You are not going to do it. We 
are not going to let you. Come away! [She 
seizes Clarissa by the arm and attempts to lead her 
out of the room. Clarissa angrily shakes her of 
and stands away from her. Peter has all through 
this proclamation of free speech, stood still regard- 
ing Clarissa with wide-eyed and intense amaze- 
ment and delight.] 

Clarissa. Let me alone, Elizabeth. I am not 
going to be bossed by you or anyone else any 
longer. Carrying on like an insane person, am 
I ? Well, if I am — which I'm not — it is you who 
have driven me to it with your impertinent and 
uncalled-for intrusion into my affairs. Don't 
know what I am saying, indeed! Which leads 
me to say a great deal more than I would have 
said otherwise. I am going to tell you all ex- 
actly why I am marrying Peter — though, Peter 
[turning to him], with your kindness and insight 
into human nature you might have guessed. 
Don't you see, Peter, that I am sick of it all — of 
social distinctions and propriety and blue blood 
and all the life-lies I have had to live by? Maybe 
if I had been pretty and gay and popular I 
wouldn't have cared, but I wasn't and I do. I 
was always a homely, quiet little girl, and I never 

208 



PETER DONELLY 



had a lover or a good time and nobody ever cared. 
I was a lonely forsaken little girl, the odd little 
black sheep, weak and timid, in a family of 
healthy white animals all alike and all disliking 
me for being different. Nobody ever did any- 
thing for me till you came along and then they 
all stand up on their hind-legs and kick up a 
hullabaloo of the danger to their class pride if 
even the little black sheep mates out of the drove! 

Elizabeth. Clarissa! 

Mrs. Allen. Oh, heaven, such sentiments, 
such language! 

Clarissa. Even so! Vm going to get it all 
out — I'm going to make a clean sweep. Don't 
you see, Peter, what I've been up against? Lots 
society cares about me, except to control me. 
Society! I've been fed on blue blood till Fm 
sick of it. Family! Why, we've had locomotor- 
ataxia and everything else in our family. We've 
collected rents from tenements that were not fit 
for pigs to live in. We've avoided paying taxes 
in every possible way. We've made money out 
of making soap that we sell for three times what 
it is worth. We've committed all the crimes 
that all the rest of rich, selfish humanity has 
committed. Who are we? What is there for us 
to be proud of? When I was a little girl I was 
taught so that I believed that all ladies and gen- 
tlemen were Republicans and everybody outside 
the Episcopal Church was the scum of the earth. 
I had to go to Sunday School and dancing class, 
when I hated them both because all the other 
little boys and girls slighted me, and I was never 

14 209 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

allowed to play with any little boys and girls 
outside my class, and they all picked on me or 
else teased me or else left me out of things so 
that I was more lonesome than when I was alone. 
Later on I had to make calls and go to teas and 
dances, and I was miserable because I couldn't 
chatter and dance and everybody slighted me. 
What I wanted was work. I wanted to be a 
newspaper reporter, but they wouldn't let me 
because it would be a disgrace to the family. 
They talked me over at family dinners — I sup- 
pose they never guessed how unhappy I was. 
My cousins made fun of my clothes — because I 
liked warm rough things and not thin filmy 
stuff that is supposed to be for ladies. And 
Aunt Harriet, who is Elizabeth's mother, would 
insist upon taking me shopping. I had to go 
calling with mother on stupid women who talked 
all about their diseases and sometimes would ask 
condescendingly about my slum work. When I 
wanted to be a stenographer the family raised a 
hue and cry. Why was I so queer that I must 
want to work like a poor girl? Wasn't there 
plenty of money coming in from the tenements 
and the soap? I am never noticed in the family 
except when I do something different from the 
rest and then noticed only to be criticised. The 
black sheep of the family, the round ball in the 
square hole — oh, how square and mathematical 
and even and measured and standardized by gen- 
erations of aunts and uncles and cousins — but 
they think I must stay there because I am my 
mother's only child. The aunts and uncles and 

2IO 



PETER DONELLY 



cousins — most of them commonplace enough and 
many of them distinctly unpleasant but squarely 
filling their little square holes. And now at last 
I am an old maid — an old maid who has never 
had a happy youth — but few of them do have. 
And I have been slow developing and am just at 
last realising that I have powers of enjoyment in 
abundance for the sort of things I myself really 
like — not the things I have been forced to try to 
like. 'And then you come along, Peter, and offer 
me means of escape from the shacldes and bore- 
some old restraint. Do you think I would refuse 
it? I don't know how I happened to love you — 
does anybody ever know? — or how you happened 
to love me, but I know I want you because you 
don't criticise me. You don't care if I wear brown 
gloves when other women are all wearing white 
ones and you fortunately don't know all about 
the rules and regulations of society that I am so 
deadly sick of. You take me as I am — [stopping 
for breath.] 

Peter. You bet I do — because you are all 
right. 

Clarissa. That's just it — the least of us want 
that from somebody. The cosiest feeling of com- 
fort I have ever had in my life is just that feeling 
of being right in your eyes. [Turning to the others,] 
In addition, I like him. Oh, it was I who led him 
on — don't blame him. He is a politician, of 
course, but so are Senator Lodge and Lord Bal- 
four. And he is human. I like him because of 
his breeziness and humor. He has made the 
youngsters of the fourth ward happy and many 

211 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

other people — and he has made me happy. As 
for your losing me. Mother, you won^t, of course, 
because I refuse to be lost. And you will keep 
right on playing auction and getting pretty clothes 
and being happy in your own way and not think- 
ing of me just as usual. But I never dreamed you 
and Ehzabeth could be so ill-bred, so brutal. 
You'll have to take it all back, you understand. 
You'll have to tell Peter you're sorry. Now 
you'd better go and wash your eyes and make 
yourself presentable for dinner. Elizabeth, you 
are welcome to stay, if you like. I expect to go 
to your house whenever I choose, just the same 
and you will do the same here as you always have, 
of course. Only understand I'm going to say 
and do what I like now and hereafter and shall 
not ever allow myself to be bullied again. I'm a 
person to be reckoned with now — I've got some- 
one to rely on — to back me up. Someone who 
believes in me. And understand that you've both 
got to treat Peter decently because he belongs to 
me. And I'm one of the family. [With a smile \ 

Elizabeth. There is no use trying to say 
anything more to her today. Aunt Julia. She is 
a perfect spit-fire. 

Mrs. Allen [rising]. Oh, Elizabeth, don't 
leave me! [Going over to her niece \ 

Elizabeth. No, Aunt Julia, I'll never desert 
you. 

Mrs. Allen. I need your support. I never 
knew her to take such a stand, to talk as she did. 
She is quite unlike herself. 

Clarissa. Perhaps I am being quite like my- 

212 



PETER DONELLY 



self at last and not everlastingly trying to be like 
someone else. 

Mrs. Allen. Oh, Elizabeth, hear her! 

Elizabeth. I certainly do. Aunt Julia, it is 
shocking. 

Clarissa. Oh, do run along, both of you, and 
wash your tear-stained faces. I'm sure dinner 
will be served any minute. 

Mrs. Allen. Oh, Elizabeth, you'll have to 
stay! I cannot be left alone with them. You 
must! 

Elizabeth [putting her arm about Mrs. Allen 
as they go out]. After such a scene! I don't see 
how I can — but of course I will not desert you. 

Clarissa. Do stay, Elizabeth. You'll find 
Peter very diverting. 

Elizabeth [glaring back at her as she goes out 
with her aunt]. I shall stay. Aunt Julia! 

[They go. Peter turns to Clarissa and gazes at 
her with unbounded admiration beaming on 
his smiling face \ 

Peter. By golly, but you stood up to them! 
And you stood up for me! You are some little 
soldier right at the cannon's mouth! 

Clarissa. You mustn't say "by golly," 
Peter. That is one of the things that prejudices 
people against you. 

Peter. Oh, I reckon, by golly, — I mean that's 
absolutely true ! [Laughing and half -embarrassed.] 
I forget so. You'll have to teach me to talk and 
I guess you'll have a harder time doing it than 
if I was a baby learning. But say, maybe some 
that they said, was true. 

213 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Clarissa. Maybe it was. 

Peter. But say, if it is — 

Clarissa. If it is, then we'll have to convince 
people. We'll have to begin at home, like charity, 
with Mother. 

Peter. Vd like so awful well to be good to 
her. But she — well, for one thing she don't like 
my clothes. You reckon you could buy the right 
kind of suit for me? 

Clarissa. You know I like your gay clothes, 
Peter. It's all a part of the gayety and health 
and niceness of you. But you can wear some 
others for Mother. We'll go slow and we'll win 
Mother and Elizabeth and everybody, finally. 
It's no easy job. You saw her last look. And 
you've got to stand by me. 

Peter. I'll stand wherever you want me to, 
you know that. But it's awful hard work you've 
got ahead of you, teaching me. I'm no spring 
chicken, either, you know, my dear. 

Clarissa. You have given me happiness, 
Peter. I shall be getting a lot of pleasure out of 
anything I do with you. 

Peter. Oh, my dear, you are — you are — ! 
If I can't use slang how on earth can I say what 
you are? 

Clarissa. Oh, Peter, you are such a goose! 
I am your little girl, of course, that is perfectly 
plain — the first person I ever belonged to, be- 
cause you belong to me. 

Peter. Well, my dear, there is one thing more 
you are — you are an angel! [He takes her in his 
arms,] [Curtain.] 

214 



AN APOCRYPHAL EPISODE. 

Being an Interlude Not Generally Found in Ordinary Editions of 
The Odyssey or The ^Eneid. 

characters as they appear. 

Dido. 

Ulysses. 

^NEAS. 

Calypso. 

[In the centre of a grassy open space^ a sort of 
natural courts surrounded by tall trees and many 
flowering hushes^ a funeral pile has been erected. 
It is high and of generous proportions. About 
it are strewn funeral boughs and garlands^ and 
upon it lie the nuptial bed of Mneas and Didoy 
heaped with the Trojan's clothings armor^ and 
sword which he had left when he departed pre- 
cipitately for his ship. It is late nighty just 
before dawn^ that sullen^ haunted hour when 
sick human bodies give up their ghosts and when 
bones long dead execute a danse macabre before 
returning to their graves at the cock's first crow. 
In the dim grey light Dido is seen with hair 
dishevelled and gown torn^ wandering about the 
funeral pile.] 

Dido. Well, I must make up my mind. I 
must decide whether really I, Dido, Queen of 
Tyre, shall throw my very good-looking body on 
the sword of the perfidious Trojan or not. The 

215 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

scene is all set. Everything is dramatically ex- 
ecuted. I have done all I could possibly think 
of to frighten him into thinking I was going to 
commit suicide, and he hasn't come back yet. 
I must say I hate to take the next step. One does, 
you know, hesitate to take the step that leads up 
to the top of a funeral pile. I believe I will give 
him a few minutes more. His ship may possibly 
have got off, though I don't think so. In any 
case it would take some time for the rumors to 
reach him that I set afloat about my mad condi- 
tion and the tragic end I am planning. It would 
be silly not to give him plenty of time. [She sits 
down on a funeral bough and is silent a moment.] 
Of course, I don't have to commit suicide. Per- 
haps it is true that there are as many good flsh 
in the sea as ever were caught — but I am crazy 
about i^neas. Yet there are quantities of men 
in the world, and I am a widow. [Thinks a mo- 
ment.] I have had many offers since my husband 
died — a handsome widow has. I might marry 
one of those Numidians. But they are all so 
black and I've always preferred light men. My 
own complexion is dark, and it is better for a 
brunette to mate with a blond. It makes a 
happier alliance. Besides, if I married one of 
them he might remember the way I formerly 
scorned him, for I certainly was haughty in the 
way I declined their suits, and he might be bad- 
tempered and nasty later on. Then, on the other 
hand, I might collect my ships and follow ^neas, 
since he is so bent on going to a new country. 
But I feel sure I should despise a pioneer life. 

216 



AN APOCRYPHAL EPISODE 

Hardships are not in my line. In Italy — a per- 
fectly new and unsettled country — with ^^neas I 
should not have the bare comforts, not to mention 
the luxuries, of civilization and my husband 
would be so engrossed with the founding of 
Rome, I know I should be neglected. No, I pre- 
fer city life — a city already founded — and apart- 
ments suitable for royalty, and plenty of well- 
trained servants and a luxurious table and an 
excellent chef. Perhaps Rome may grow into a 
city some day, but it's nothing but a mud bank 
on the Tiber now. No, there are only two courses 
left open to me, either to get ^neas back or to 
commit suicide and haunt him. I suppose it 
doesn't make any difference to a ghost where it 
is — that my ghost would be as comfortable in the 
pioneer settlement of Rome as it would be in a 
big established city like Tyre. Ghosts never 
seem to be comfortable anywhere. But at least 
I could get some pleasure out of making him 
miserable. If he doesn't come back and I do 
commit suicide I shall never give him another 
easy hour in his life. My ghost shall make him 
perfectly miserable. I believe I will climb the 
funeral pile and rave some more. [She gets up 
and begins laboriously and with much sliding back- 
ward to ascend the funeral pile. After great strug- 
gling she arrives out-of-breath at the top.] The 
descent to Avernus may be easy [breathing 
heavily], but the preparatory ascent is not. [She 
drops and sits in a heap at the top of the pile.] 
This is his armor [touching it], this his sword, 
and these are his clothes — the vain man, he 

217 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

knew he was good-looking and always dressed 
well to set off his manly beauty. Well, I may as 
well rage a bit more and see if that will do any 
good. [She rises and begins screaming and rend- 
ing her hair and gown \ Oh, me unhappy! Oh, 
Dido, that was Queen of the Tyrians, now dis- 
tressed, forlorn, forsaken, soul-depressed! De- 
serted by the perfidious Trojan, I must now seek 
death by my own hand. I will set fire to my 
funeral pile and plunge his sword into my bosom. 
Let the cruel Trojan from the sea feed his eyes 
with these flames and bear with him the arrows 
of my death. \She stops and listens a moment 
and then speaks in a lower and ynore natural tone 
of voice.] I may as well pretend to do it — he may 
be looking. [She again raises her voice and shrieks.] 
So I, Dido, Queen of Tyre, die by the sword of 
him who has so cruelly abandoned me! [She 
pretends to plunge upon the sword just as a man in 
full armor^ a Greeks rushes in and leaps to the pile^ 
catching the sword from her^ exclaiming mean- 
while:] 

Ulysses. Hold on, hold on! There, there, my 
good woman, what are you about? [Dido, pant- 
ing heavily, would fall, but he supports her and she 
collapses in his arms.] 

DiDo [with eyes closed]. Ah! 

Ulysses. That was a narrow escape. I got 
here just in the nick of time. [She opens her eyes 
a moment, rolls them — they are large and very beau- 
tiful, and Ulysses gazes at her in deep admiration 
— and closes them again. She is hanging in his 
arms, utterly relaxed.] Come, let me help you 

218 



AN APOCRYPHAL EPISODE 

down from this infernal affair. [He draws her 
gently^ lijts^ half carries her down to the ground.] 
I have been awfully unlucky in the last few years, 
getting wrecked and lost and arriving constantly 
in the most malapropos places, but I certainly 
was fortunate this time to get here just at the 
right moment. 

Dido [starting away from him violently y her 
eyes dilated and gazing at him with pretended sur- 
prise and amazement]. Ah, who are you? You 
are not he! 

Ulysses. No, evidently not. Did you think 
I was? 

Dido [repeating with a tragic break in her voice]. 
You are not he! 

Ulysses. It is unfortunate for me that I am 
not. I only wish I were. Would you mind tell- 
ing me whom you were expecting? 

Dido. Tell me first your name. 

Ulysses. Well, I don't much like to, because 
it seems to bring bad luck. There usually ensues 
a concatenation of circumstances to prevent my 
moving on. But I don't so much care whether I 
move on from here or not. I don't mind telling 
you. The fact is that I think I should have to 
tell you anything. I am Ulysses. 

Dido [starting. Ulysses! The Achaian! The 
Greek ! The enemy of him ! Ah, woe is me ! 

Ulysses. Bad luck does seem to pursue me 
after all. But now you might tell me who he is, 
and more especially I am passionately interested 
to know who you are. 

219 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Dido. I am Dido, Queen of Tyre, and he is 
the perfidious Trojan, pious JEntas. 

Ulysses. Perfidious is the word. They are all 
that, those Trojans — perfidious, lying, deceiving 
in every possible way, abominable, execrable, 
diabolical. They are fiends incarnate. I hope 
you have not put your trust in ^neas. 

Dido. He seemed so gentle, so plausible. 

Ulysses. That is just their way of spreading 
propaganda. I hope you didn't beHeve him. 

Dido. I did. I trusted every word that fell 
from his lips. He won me with his marvelous 
tales of bravery and hardship. 

Ulysses. Manufactured out of whole cloth, 
every one of them. 

Dido. He worked upon my woman's sym- 
pathy, the poor, unfortunate, lonely man, de- 
prived in one fell blow of father and wife and 
home. 

Ulysses. Lucky dog! 

Dido [turning on him fiercely]. What! 

Ulysses. Oh, I don't mean that — I only mean 
that by being an object of pity he won your — 
your interest. It's a funny thing a woman is 
always ready to fall in love with a man because 
he's lost his wife — another woman. Now I can't 
arouse anybody's sympathy, because I have a 
complete outfit of home and family back in 
Greece. 

Dido. He had lost his spouse, poor lonely 
man! 

Ulysses. The second summer is the dangerous 
age for infants, the fatal one for widowers. 

220 



AN APOCRYPHAL EPISODE 

Dido. He had his son with him, a darling little 
creature. 

Ulysses [nodding his head gloomily]. There 
you are. Looked like Eros, I suppose. And so 
^Eneas worked on your sympathy for all he was 
worth, and you took care of him, darned his 
socks and nursed the baby. 

Dido. I gave him hospitality and believed him 
when he told me how much I meant to him. 

Ulysses. Don't believe a man when he tells 
how much he loves you, only believe him when 
he neglects his business for you. 

Dido. That he did not do. It was his business 
that drew him away from me. He said that he 
must go, that the gods intended him to found a 
city and raise up a nation, an eternal city, Rome 
in Italy. All my entreaties were in vain, my 
tears, my supplications. He, who had won me 
with his appeals, his distress, his soft speech, now 
became cold, callous, stony-hearted, abusive. He 
left me, saying he would sail away in his ship, oh, 
stern and cruel one! Then, overpowered by my 
grief, I took the Furies into my breast and de- 
termined to die. There is in my palace a marble 
shrine in honor of my former husband, to whose 
memory I have never ceased to be devoted. 
[Casting her eyes piously to Heaven,] To that I 
paid extraordinary veneration — after ^Eneas had 
deserted me. I had it encircled with snowy 
fillets of wool and festal garlands. 

Ulysses [sighing deeply]. Ah, fidelity is an 
appealing quality in woman! 

Dido. But I have only the ghost of my former 

221 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

husband, and JEnta.s, with strong, real arms and 
hot, real lips, has been whispering soft nothings 
into my ear and stealing away my heart. 

Ulysses. It would have been wiser to steel 
your heart against him than to have him steal it. 

Dido. Ah, me unhappy, I am the victim of 
masculine charms! Undone by the perfidy of the 
pious ^neas — 

Ulysses. Pious people always are to be 
watched. 

Dido. I determined to seek death by my own 
hand and descend to the shade of my former 
husband. Therefore yesterday I caused this vast 
funeral pile to be erected, with these torches and 
faggots of oak, and the ground strewn with these 
garlands and funeral boughs and his armor and 
clothes and sword carried here from my apart- 
ment, where he had abandoned them — and had 
them placed on top. 

Ulysses. If he went off without his things, 
don't you think he'll come back? 

Dido. Oh, no, no! 

Ulysses. Then you must have had a scene. 

Dido. I also caused altars to be erected around, 
and a priestess with hair dishevelled and with 
thundering voice invoked three hundred gods and 
Erebus and Chaos and threefold Hecate. Oh, she 
made a terrific spectacle of herself. 

Ulysses. I can easily believe it. 

Dido. She sprinkled water as the symbol of 
the lake of Avernus, and spread full-grown herbs 
cut with brazen sickles by moonlight, and juice 
of black poison. Oh, it was all done properly. 

222 



AN APOCRYPHAL EPISODE 

Ulysses [gallantly]. I feel sure you would not 
leave the least little dramatic thing undone. 

Dido. Then, at night when the others had all 
gone to bed, I alone stood by the altars with 
salt cake and appealed to the gods and to the 
stars. 

Ulysses. It sounds beautifully lyric and 
lovely. 

Dido. I alone stood here under the stars 
through the night when all others slept — when 
even the great trees of the woods and the surging 
waves of the sea were quiet and all beasts and 
speckled birds, both the water birds that nest 
out on the far rocks of the sea and the little birds 
that live in the tall grasses of the fields and in the 
bushes. All through the silent night under the 
stars I raged and beat my breast for the per- 
fidious, pious one who had neglected and de- 
serted me. 

Ulysses [approaching and putting his arms 
around her\. It is a perfect outrage, my dear girl. 
I cannot understand how any man could be so 
callous to your charms. 

Dido. Oh, indeed, it wasn't that! He wasn't 
callous at all, but he was too ambitious to found 
a family and build a city. 

Ulysses. Ah, I see — the old, old chaste com- 
bination of piety and the love of riches. 

Dido [as if suddenly recollecting herself]. Oh, 
my friend, I had in my distracted state of mind 
almost forgotten my hospitality. You must be 
travel-worn and weary. 

Ulysses [sighing]. I am always travel- worn 

223 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

and weary. I am forever be ng shipwrecked and 
lost. It has got to be my normal condition. 

Dido. Then come with me to my palace, that 
I may provide you with refreshment. 

Ulysses {with a meaning glance]. My charm- 
ing hostess, I think I would come with you any- 
where. [He offers her his aj'm and they proceed 
off to the right. As they go, jEneas and Calypso 
appear from the lefr^ entering cautiously. They 
have seen Dido and Ulysses and have watched them 
go^ but the others have not seen them.] 

^NEAS [his lip curling with scorn . She is al- 
ready flirting with another man! 

Calypso. Well, are you surprised? You de- 
serted her, didn't you? What does a man expect 
when he leaves a woman to the wiles of any pass- 
ing stranger? And Ulysses has wiles, I can 
assure you. Besides, my dear fellow, what are 
you doing? Haven't you been flirting with me 
as hard as you could? 

^NEAS [sighing heavily]. Oh, please do not call 
it flirting. I am quite in earnest, I do assure you. 
From the moment I saw you sitting upon a rock 
on the shore when I was tossing in my ship among 
the surges I knew some beneficent god was di- 
recting m^e to come to you. 

Calypso [smiling]. Perhaps the gods are not 
quite so busy with human destinies as you think. 
You see I know a little bit about them, being one 
on my father's side. 

^NEAS. You are a goddess and a queen. You 
are everything that is beautiful and attractive. 

224 



AN APOCRYPHAL EPISODE 

[Rapt/y.] You must be divine, since you are so 
good. 

Calypso. Oh, thank you. Such a remark is 
very appealing, even coming from a stranger. 
I don't often hear this sentiment about myself. 
You know a woman, even a goddess on her father's 
side, becomes a little weary of hearing nothing 
but pretty things said about her beauty — the 
perfection of her eyes or the loveliness of her nose 
[wi^/i a wan, sad smile], and longs to hear a com- 
pliment to her goodness, especially from a pious 
man like you. [Smiling at him archly.] 

i^NEAS. Then you do admire piety in a man? 

Calypso. Oh, piety has the greatest fascina- 
tion for me. It does for all women. That is why 
so many men are married — most men are so good. 

i^NEAS. But you came here after Ulysses, you 
said you followed him. Ulysses is not pious, he 
is a perfidious Greek, fickle, untrustworthy, base. 

Calypso. I followed him to be revenged. 
When a man tires of a woman, as he always does 
unless she gets ahead of him and does it first, 
when he forsakes her, some women try to lure 
him back by charms, some forget him and per- 
suade themselves they are better off, some follow 
him. That is the course men dislike most, so I 
followed him. 

^NEAS. But you will give up following him 
now.^ You will turn your attentions to a more 
worthy object.^ 

Calypso. Now don't you think that is carry- 
ing piety a little too far? Revenge is a very 

^ 225 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

noble and ancient virtue. Call it punishment if 
you prefer. Every pious person knows that he 
wants to revenge himself upon his enemy — that 
is, of course, to say that the wrong-doer must be 
punished. 

y^NEAS. If I should meet this perfidious Greek 
I should punish him. It is not fitting for you to 
do so, it is fitting for you — 

Calypso. But you just saw him and I didn't 
notice you rushing after him. 

i^NEAS. — it is fitting for you, a pious woman, 
to unite yourself with a pious man and found a 
pious family and build a pious city and establish 
a pious race and nation. 

Calypso. Do you really expect to do all that? 

iENEAS [solemnly]. It is the will of the gods. 

Calypso. Well, then, I suppose you are going 
to do it. If a man persuades himself that the gods 
are backing him up, he generally succeeds — at 
least for a time. There's everything in thinking 
you have moral support. 

^Eneas [suddenly]. Oh, Calypso, my perfect 
one, come away with me to Italy! [Ho/ding out 
his arms to her beseechingly.] 

Calypso. Hark, someone is approaching! 

^Eneas. Then let us wander off to the sea and 
watch the shining rays of the dawning sun play 
upon the rippling waves. Besides, it will be 
safer there. 

[They gOy and almost immediately Dido and 
Ulysses enter.] 

226 



AN APOCRYPHAL EPISODE 

Dido. The arms would have been perfectly 
safe. No one would be impious enough to rob 
a funeral pile. 

Ulysses. It is wiser for us to come back and 
get them. My dear, I feel much surer to have 
the sword of ^^neas in my own possession. It 
isn't safe to leave arms lying around. They may 
go off. [He proceeds to climb the pile and pick up 
the sword.] 

Dido. But a funeral pile is inviolate and a 
sword couldn't go off. 

Ulysses. Oh, innocent-minded woman, it 
might with a man, and the perfidious Trojan is 
impious enough to rob his own funeral pile. 
[He descends.] Now I feel easier about it. [Ad- 
justing the sword into his own belt.] It comes in 
handy, for my own sword went to the bottom in 
my last shipwreck. It was one I rather valued, 
too, presented to me by the father of Nausicaa 
after I was shipwrecked in front of their house. 
Poor girl! She was so impressionable I And a 
shipwrecked man cannot help being a little 
grateful. [He smiles reminiscently.] 

Dido. You seem to have been shipwrecked a 
great deal. 

Ulysses. Yes, I have got into the habit. I 
may say it is my worst, almost my only, bad habit. 
[Patting the sword.] Well, I feel more comfortable 
with this in my possession. As for ^neas, he 
can get another when he goes aboard his own ship. 
Lucky dog, to have his own ship! I hope he's 
well embarked by now. 

Dido. Will you come now and refresh your 

227 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

weary heart with wine and bread and luscious 
fruits? 

Ulysses. I will, my queen, and afterwards, if 
I may, I will lie with my head pillowed on your 
breast and be lulled to sleep by the music of your 
heart. [He takes her arm and they go out. At 
once the other two enter from the other side^ Calypso 
with knitted brows y her face intense with anger and 
hatred^ her movements quicky JEneas following 
slowly a few feet behind.] 

i^NEAS. I told you not to wait and listen 
or you'd hear something you didn't want to 
hear. 

Calypso. The fickle knave! And she — the 
weak impostor! 

i^NEAS. You'd much better come with me. 

Calypso [her expression changing slowly as if 
a sudden thought had just come to her^ as she seems 
to be cogitating and planning keenly and quickly ^ 
turns suddenly and directly to him]. Do you really 
love me? 

^NEAS. I worship you. [He stands stock- 
stilly howevery and she approaches him.] 

Calypso. What would you give for a kiss? 

i^NEAS. Do you really mean it, goddess? 

Calypso [playing the siren and alluring him 
to the full extent of her power]. Will you try to 
steal a kiss, oh, faint-hearted one? [He slowly 
approaches and finally puts his arm about hery 
catching her to him in a closer embrace. As he does 
sOy she screams frantically.] Oh, oh, loose me, 
ruffian! Oh, help, help, help! 

228 



AN APOCRYPHAL EPISODE 



[Dido and Ulysses come running, but, seeing 
who the others are, they stop and Ulysses puts 
his arm about Dido. Calypso is still in the 
arms of Mneas, managing to cling to him so 
that he is made to appear to be holding her^ 
and standing thus, the two couples on either 
side regard each other, Bido disengages her- 
self from Ulysses and takes a few steps towards 
the others.] 

Dido. Oh, ^neas! Oh, perfidious, but be- 
loved and pious hero! 

Calypso [as if trying with difficulty to free her- 
self]. This man has followed and besought and 
wooed and pursued me and at last when I was 
helpless has attacked me. 

Dido [advancing to him]. Adored one! My 
heart's treasure! 

[Ulysses, left alone, bursts into fury, draws his 
sword and prepares for an attack upon Mneas\ 

Ulysses. Oh, you scoundrel, dog, impious 
wretch, coward, traitor, deserter, base one, cur! 
It is not enough for you to make love to one 
woman and then forsake her, but you must now 
proceed to play the villain with another! Come 
on! Defend yourself! [He brandishes his sword.] 

^NEAS [disentangling himself from Calypso on 
the one hand and from Bido on the other, who en- 
deavors to throw herself into his arms]. Can't you 
let me alone, both of you? It wasn't my fault. 
She enticed me. She lured me on. 

Ulysses. Who did? 

Calypso. Not I! Anyone that knows me 

229 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

knows that I would never entice and allure a 
pious man. 

Dido. Oh, how can you, ^Eneas? You know 
I never did. 

^Eneas. They both did. 

Calypso. Oh, oh, base liar! [Shrieking.] 

Dido. Oh, i^neas! [Weeping.] 

Ulysses. Enough! You low defamer of 
women, defend yourself! Or die in ignominy! 
[He stalks towards Mneas brandishing his sword^ 
which is that of Mneas. Calypso and Dido start 
away and Mneas jumps back and proceeds to draw 
his sword^ talking the while.] 

^Eneas. All women are alike. You can*t de- 
pend on any of them. I didn't want to start 
this quarrel. I didn't want to fight. I really 
don't like quarrels and fighting. I'm always 
drawn into them. I do wish I had got off to 
Italy. 

Ulysses [grandiloquently]. Coward and de- 
ceiver! [Lunges at Mneas.] 

[Ulysses and Mneas fight. At first ^Eneas 
chiefly parries the blows that come thick and 
fast. They are fairly evenly matched. Calypso 
on one hand and Dido on the other watch^ 
Calypso with intense interest and delight. Dido 
with moans, shrieks, and weeping. Calypso 
is confident, knowing the wonderful strength 
and ability of Ulysses, but at last as the fight 
continues for some time with no apparent sign 
of victory on either side, she finally goes over 
to Dido andy after watching a few minutes 

230 



AN APOCRYPHAL EPISODE 

more with Dido^ she draws her aside and speaks 
to her.] 

Calypso. Which of these two men do you 
really want? 

Dido. Oh, ^neas, ^Eneas, of course! How 
can you ask? Oh, oh, I am so much afraid he 
will be killed! 

Calypso. If you feel that way, then, if you 
want him, why don't you get him out? 

Dido. Oh, how can I? Oh, oh! 

Calypso. Well, there is really no need for 
these men to be hacking each other to pieces, 
you know. They both love me, of course, but I 
couldn't be bothered with ^neas. [She stands as 
if thinkings then with loud cries she runs to the two 
warriors and throws herself between them.] Apart! 
Apart! Stop fighting and stand aside! [Ulysses 
and ^neaSy as she throws herself between them, 
separate, draw back with exclamations and stand 
gazing at her in amazement and perplexity.] YouVe 
both shown now that you can fight — that you 
are both doughty warriors — and it is perfectly 
senseless for you to keep on till you cleave each 
other in two. There are four of us now. You 
are great fools to fight, moreover, when you 
might be much more pleasantly occupied. 

Dido [approaching with tears]. Oh, y^neas! 

^NEAS. Do not speak to me, woman! 

Dido. Oh, i^neas! 

^NEAS. You were flirting with another man! 

Calypso. So? Jealous, are you? [Smiling.] 

^NEAS. Not at all — but — 

231 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Calypso. Oh, you aren't, aren't you? Well, 
Dido wasn't flirting in the least, it was all Ulysses' 
fault. I know him. She wouldn't flirt. She is so 
good, she is almost simple-minded. Why don't 
you take her? You are absolutely cut out for 
each other. And there is little reason to doubt 
that she is in love with you. Now stop your silly 
fighting. 

^NEAS. Well, I didn't start it. I never did 
care much for fighting. By nature I am more of 
a business man. If Ulysses would only let me 
alone I might be able to get to Italy and found 
a family and a city even yet. 

Calypso. And you, Ulysses? 

Ulysses [wkh deep irony and anger]. And you? 
You were carrying on with this Trojan — I know 
you were. 

Calypso. What? Jealous, too? 

Ulysses. Certainly not — but — 

Calypso [sweetly]. No? Is it so strange that 
neither of you can realize it? That is that both 
Dido and I are not wholly without charm for 
other men perhaps even besides yourselves? 
Honestly, Ulysses, won't you acknowledge that 
we are both beautiful? 

Ulysses [smiling darkly]. All women are beau- 
tiful — too beautiful. 

Calypso. And you, ^neas, will acknowledge, 
too, that we are both beautiful? 

^NEAS. My piety compels me to tell the truth 
— that you are both of you beautiful — and good, 
so very good. 

232 



AN APOCRYPHAL EPISODE 

Calypso. That's all right, then. You won't 
fight any more over us? 

i^NEAS. It is my theory that fighting should 
be carried on by slaves alone. Why should we 
feed them, otherwise? In future history, kings 
will carry on their wars that way — I shall put that 
in the constitution of Rome. Don't you agree 
with me, Ulysses? 

Ulysses. No, I don't agree with you about 
anything and never shall, but I am willing to 
stop fighting for the present, if you wish. This 
little skirmish has got my blood going again and 
I feel very much better — in fact, quite myself 
once more. Dalliance in the isle of Calypso had 
got me awfully soft and rusty. Shipwrecks are 
something, but they don't do for your muscles 
what a good fight does. A man needs hard ex- 
ercise if he has been used to it, like me, in wars 
and things. But now — really — I feel quite fit 
again. 

^NEAS. Look here, wouldn't it be a good idea 
if you and I signed , a peace pact between our 
countries for future ages? 

Ulysses. Dear me, no, not I. I don't want to 
consign my name to oblivion by being the father 
of any league of nations. 

^NEAS. Oh, come, now, it would be so noble 
and humanitarian. And it would make me feel 
so much safer about the mercantile and marine 
affairs of Rome. 

Ulysses. Why should I sign a peace pact 
when I like war? The exercise is good for a man's 
system, and anyhow doubtless I'll get into a 

"-33 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

brawl every time I meet one of your country- 
men. It will be that way, you know. Greece 
and Rome will probably keep up the feud for- 
ever, my boy. 

^Eneas. Well, it will be very bad for business 
unless it is carried on by slaves. In that case — 
now I wonder? — it — war may prove to be a pro- 
tection to business! [Thoughtfully.] 

Calypso, i^neas, i^neas. Dido is waiting for 
you. Go to her — she is good, so very good and 
pious, just like you. You are both pillars of 
society. [He does not move at once and Calypso 
repeats petulantly^ impatiently^ stamping her foot.] 
Go to her, I say. [Mneas goes over to DidOy who 
holds out her arms to him.] 

Dido. My ^neas, my own pious ^neas! 

Calypso. Now betake yourselves to Dido's 
palace and have your cakes and wine and fruit 
and be happy. 

[Dido hangs upon the arm of Mneas and they 
start away slowly as Calypso continues speak- 
ing to Ulysses.] 

Calypso. And you, my Ulysses! [Alluring 
him with the charm of her smile and attitude.] 
Come with me to the island of joy. 

Ulysses [captivated by her] I am only human, 
you know, and you are — 

Calypso. And I am half divine, you would 
say? 

Ulysses. No, not half divine — you are divine! 
Perhaps we can — what would you say.^ — perhaps 

234 



AN APOCRYPHAL EPISODE 



we can surreptitiously borrow one of Eneas' 
boats to take us back to the island. 

Calypso. Back to the island of joy! Our 
island of joy where the Httle waves from the deep 
blue sea roll and curl up to the shore, and the 
wide, fair sands are opalescent at sunset when 
music makes happy and all the sweetest birds 
sing in the fresh green olive trees and sapHngs, 
where the smiling sun warms and the dewy wind 
cools and the night is alive with stars and sweet 
with the floating breath of jasmine and oleander. 
Come! [She holds out her arms to him^ he takes her 
hand, putting his arm around her, and together 
they wander of in the direction of the sea, as Dido 
and ^neas have gone off in the other direction to- 
ward the city.] 

[Curtain.] 



^3^ 



STANDING MOVING. 

characters: 

Billy. Bertha. 

Miriam. George. 

In this play two actors may assume 
double roles. 

[The scene represents the living-room in a very 
old frame house. Be it understood that the house 
has been a good one in its timCy built on large 
grounds in what was then a residential part of 
the city, but it has been allowed to go to rack and 
ruin, just as the neighborhood has changed, 
deteriorating into a slum. The room has been 
dismantled. It is bare, but cluttered with stray 
unfortunate articles of furniture. A large old- 
fashioned square piano stands in the centre, some 
broken rocking-chairs are gathered together in a 
helpless group, a very old broken clock is on the 
mantelpiece, three large dress-boxes are tied to- 
gether on the floor, several old family oil portraits 
lean lop-sidedly against the wall on the floor, etc. 
— as much as you please to indicate the hope- 
lessly left-overs when moving ought to have been 
done. A pretty girl enters with a bungalow 
apron on much the worse for wear, a coat over it, 
and her hat on. She carries a grip, box tied with 
white ribbon, handbag, glass vase, bronze statue, 
two framed photographs, large Chinese lantern, 

236 



STANDING MOVING 



anything else you may think of, which she de- 
posits on the floor. A latch-key is heard, and a 

young man appears through the door which opens 

into the hall behind.] 

Billy [looking about with sharp surprise and 
disgust]. Well, for the love o* Mike! 

Miriam. What, dear? 

Billy. You said this morning everything 
would be moved today. 

Miriam. Everything is. 

Billy. Don't you call all this truck anything? 

Miriam. Oh, these things are just left-overs. 

Billy. But what are you going to do with 
them ? 

Miriam. I don't know. 

Billy. You don't know? 

Miriam. Yes. That's just the point. Let's 
sit down. I'm so tired I can't stand. My feet 
feel as if they would come off, and I wish they 
would— then I wouldn't have to do anything 
more. [She drops to the floor and sits there.] The 
floor is so dusty, though I swept it myself six 

times. 

Billy. Sit on those [pointing to the dress- 
boxes], „ 

Miriam. Oh, I couldn't! I never "sat on you 

in my life. 

Billy. Fm not three paper boxes. 

Miriam. Yes you are, dear, symbolically. 
These are your love letters. 

Billy. Good Lord, did I write all that? And 
paper so high! Why didn't you burn them? 

237 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Miriam. Billy, I could never burn your love- 
letters! These [indicating the box tied with white 
ribbon] are the letters you proposed in. 

Billy. Good Lord! How many? 

Miriam. Thirty-nine. 

Billy. It isn't fair to keep such evidences of 
a man's imbecility. I'll burn them. 

Miriam. Never! I won't let you. We'll take 
them with us. 

Billy. Not on your life! I'm not going to 
live in one room with all my dead selves. 

Miriam. Oh, Billy, do you mean you don't 
love me any more? 

Billy. Of course, I love you. But youVe got 
to stop being sentimental. Look here! That 
fellow was so mean, and I was so afraid he'd 
back down and not buy the place, that I signed a 
paper promising we'd be out of here by six o'clock 
tonight. 

Miriam. Well, we will be. I'm all ready to 
start. 

Billy. You look ready! What are you doing 
with that apron on? 

Miriam. Oh, I forgot to take it off. I don't 
know what to do with it now. It won't go in 
the grip. That grip is so full it wouldn't hold a 
postage stamp more. I'll just have to carry it 
over my arm. 

Billy. It's the dirtiest thing I ever saw. 

Miriam. Do you know, sweetheart, one thing 
I have always admired in you so much is your 
neatness? 

Billy. My dear girl, we haven't time for ad- 

238 



STANDING MOVING 

miration now. What are you going to do with 
all these things? I tell you I signed a contract 
before a notary with that chap, promising we'd 
be out by six o'clock tonight — that means us, our 
belongings. All this truck is yours. 

Miriam. I wish you wouldn't call the things 
I love truck. This piano was my grandmother's 
when she was a little girl. 

Billy. It sure looks it. 

Miriam. It is a dear old thing — I love it. 

Billy. I suppose you do. Women are queer. 
I suppose if I died you'd love the end of the 
shaving soap I'd used. The fact is this piano is a 
white elephant on our hands — a regular white 
elephant. It's cracked, it won't stay in tune, it's 
too big for any modern house, it wouldn't even 
make good kindling wood. It's worse than a dead 
battle-ship — we've no sea to drop it in. Why 
didn't you get rid of it? 

Miriam. Well, I tried to. I tried to sell it to 
everybody — all the music-stores and schools. 
All the neighbors — even the laundry man. 

Billy. Why didn't you give it away? 

Miriam. I tried to do that, too, but they all 
refused politely, with deep thanks. Even the 
Apple-Faced-One wouldn't, though he took every- 
thing else. 

Billy. Who's he? 

Miriam. He's one of the men on the moving- 
van. I don't know his name, but he looks like 
an apple. He's Irish, and he's been so kind. 
He's taken everything I didn't know what to 
do with — such stacks of stuff. 

239 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Billy. I bet he has [grimly]. 

Miriam. He's going to dispose of what is left 
in the kitchen. 

Billy. Do you mean to say there's anything 
left in the kitchen? 

Miriam. Just a few things. 

[Billy rushes out frantically through the door to 
the right and in a second tears wildly back 
again \ 

Billy. Miriam, why the kitchen's full! Broken 
china, broken furniture, old clocks, rolls of wall- 
paper, a sewing-machine — 

Miriam. It won't run, no one can make It run. 

Billy. — fruit jars, old pictures, burned cook- 
ing utensils, broken crockery, bottles, bottles, 
bottles, truck, truck, truck! You said a few 
things! Good Lord! The kitchen's so full you 
can't wade through! This is awful! All this 
stuff here and all that stuff there! We can't get 
it out and we can't get out of it! I feel as if I 
were drowning! 

Miriam. You act as if you were. I never saw 
you so hysterical. 

Billy. Hysterical? Me? Don't be insulting. 
Though I might well be hysterical. I'll prob- 
ably be sued. It's all your fault. To be out at 
six! [Looking at his watch.] It's three minutes to 
six now! I'll be sued! Sued! 

Miriam. If you were as tired as I am you 
wouldn't mind. I'd be glad to go to jail and sit 
down to rest in a nice quiet cell. 

240 



STANDING MOVING 

Billy. Oh, don't talk like an idiot! We've 
got to do something. What are we going to do? 

Miriam. The Apple-Faced-One is going to 
do it. 

Billy. What is he going to do? When? 

Miriam. Well, he tried to give everything to 
the Salvation Army, but they wouldn't have it. 

Billy. I don't blame them — I don't blame 
them. 

Miriam. So he's got a friend of his, an old 
darky, to cart them away this evening with his 
mule. I had to pay him two dollars and a half. 
It was too much, but I was reckless. 

Billy. It would be cheap at fifty dollars. 

Miriam. Now about these portraits, Billy. 
I've made up my mind to part with them. 

Billy. Fine! We'll burn them. It's t'he best 
thing when you move to burn your ancestors be- 
hind you. 

Miriam. I'm attached to them, Billy. 

Billy. One has a certain connection with one's 
ancestors. 

Miriam. I know they're not beautiful. 

Billy [holding an awfuly stern old gentleman up 
to view]. No? 

Miriam. And they don't look at all like the 
people. 

Billy. Portraits never do. 

Miriam. But I've steeled myself to part with 
them. 

Billy. I've often wished someone would steal 
them, 

Miriam. Yet I don't want anybody else to 

" 241 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

get hold of them and pass them off as their 
ancestors. 

Billy. Give them to the old nigger. 

Miriam. No, the Apple-Faced-One is going to 
bury them in the back yard, only they have to 
be cut up first. 

Billy. Well, I won*t be cut up by that. [Point- 
ing to the portrait of the stern old gentleman.] My, 
what a cut-up he is! 

Miriam. I got out the old carving knife to do 
it, but I couldn't bear to. 

Billy. Didn't like to knife your ancestors? 
I'll be the cat's-paw. It's the job of a son-in-law. 
[Takes out his knife ^ opens ity and makes for the 
ancestors?^ 

Miriam. Oh, Billy, I can't stand to see you 
do it! I'll leave a note asking the Apple-Faced- 
One to. I have every confidence in him. 

Billy. Ha! I have a happy thought. Leave 
the ancestors to him. Leave everything to him. 
Let him appropriate the ancestors. It isn't every 
man that knows his own father. Why shouldn't 
yours be his, anyhow? 

Miriam. Billy! My family has always been 
moral. 

Billy. I know. It seems so — otherwise they 
wouldn't have got so poor. But from what you 
tell me, the Apple-Faced-One is getting rich. 
He'll soon need ancestors, his children will de- 
mand them, and so we'll just provide them for 
him. We'll give him the ancestors and clock and 
piano and everything. 

Miriam. My grandfather was always so fond 

242 



STANDING MOVING 

of the clock. He bought it when he was a young 
man. He always called it Excelsior. I never 
knew why, but it seemed romantic. 

Billy. It runs as if it were full of hay. 

Miriam. Then there's the cuckoo clock out in 
the hall, too. 

Billy. We'll give them all to the Apple-Faced- 
One. They'll all go in the new house of concrete 
blocks he'll be building soon. And he'll tell how 
his grandfather sat in that old chair and rocked 
till he fell asleep after his arduous day of cutting 
coupons, and how his grandmother played soft 
old-fashioned airs on this old piano — oh, I've got 
it fixed up — fine, splendid, bully! Besides, he 
can stand a law-suit better than I can. You write 
a note giving everything that's left here to him, 
and then when that chap sues me for not having 
all the goods and chattels removed from the 
premises I can prove that none of it belonged to 
me, but all of it to the Apple-Faced-One. By 
gum, that's the ticket! Then let that infernal 
gazoo bring on his law-suit. 

Miriam. Billy, you are positively ferocious in 
your attitude to George. 

Billy. Am I? Well, I wonder why.^ 

Miriam [shrugging her shoulders]. I am sure I 
don't know. 

Billy. Look here, we couldn't sell this place, 
could we? We tried and tried and tried, and 
finally George came along and wanted to buy it. 
Oh, no, he didn't want to buy it exactly, he only 
was willing to buy it in his supercilious way just 
to do you a favor. 

243 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Miriam. How absolutely unjust you are to 
George. He isn't supercilious at all. He is a 
perfect lamb. 

Billy. Oh, yes, and you love lambs, don*t 
you? Miriam had a little lamb! Bah! You 
can't deny you were sweethearts once. And he's 
been carrying on with you now again right here 
under my nose. Coming here to look at the 
house in my absence! 

Miriam. A man has a right to look at a place 
he's thinking of buying, hasn't he? 

Billy. As if he didn't know all about it! 
Used to fairly live here, didn't he? 

Miriam. That was several years ago, and he 
wasn't thinking of buying it then. 

Billy. Oh, no, he was only thinking of marry- 
ing it. 

Miriam. Oh, Billy, you married it, didn't you? 

Billy. That's it! Twit me with it! I didn't 
marry you for your house. A man makes a big 
mistake to marry a girl with a house and home. 

Miriam. How can you be so mean? I don't 
want to reproach you. I never have reproached 
you. But when we were married you said you 
loved every stick and stone that was mine, and 
then gradually you changed and got to hating it. 
Of course I know you haven't any feeling of 
local attachment. 

Billy. A man who has lived in twenty-nine 
different boarding-houses loses his sense of direc- 
tion, let alone local attachment. But I thought 
it was local ^^^d'-tachment you were trying to get. 
Didn't you want to get rid of this place? 

244 



STANDING MOVING 



Miriam. Oh, yes, I felt we ought to sell it— 
but I loved it. You haven't been sympathetic, 
Billy. I don't want to reproach you, but it's the 
home of my ancestors, my great-grandfather built 
the house. 

Billy. And a regular old rattle-trap it's got 
to be. You said you wanted a modern apart- 
ment with plumbing. 

Miriam. He came here and built it when there 
wasn't another house within a half-mile. 

Billy. And a nice, sweet-smelling slum the 
neighborhood is now. 

Miriam. But I love every tree and shrub and 
blade of grass. I love the church steeples rising 
out of the smoke in the city below. I love the 
old house— every window^ with its little distort- 
ing panes of glass, every board of the old creak- 
ing floor. My grandmother was married here 
and my mother and I. I love all the old dilap- 
idated furniture. Maybe I wouldn't have cared 
so if you had been more sympathetic. But you 
haven't helped me in the least. All you did— I 
don't want to reproach you, but all you did was 
to say, "Sell everything and give away the rest." 
And then you'd put on your hat and go. That's 
what a man does— he puts on his hat and goes. 
And I worked like a slave dismantling a house 
that had been lived in by the same family seventy- 
five years. I found everything under the sun, 
from my great-grandfather's carpet slippers to 
my uncle's skeleton. 

Billy {shouting. What! 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Miriam. Yes, my uncle was a medical student, 
and he had a skeleton to study. 

Billy. Oh! 

Miriam. I had all of this to do myself, selling 
things and giving them away and paying to have 
them carted off and hunting a place for us to go 
to — and all you did was to put on your hat and 
go — after I had got your breakfast for you. 

Billy. Didn't I order the moving vans? 

Miriam. All I could find was one room for 
us to live in — 

Billy. Fine and cozy it will be, after this 
barn. 

Miriam. — that George and his wife have been 
occupying, and I wouldn't have got that if it 
hadn't been for George — 

Billy. Damn George! 

Miriam. And all the dear old furniture is 
stored. Oh, I don't know how I stood it! I don't 
[her voice breaking — I don't know how I can stand 
moving! 

Billy. We're not the only people who are 
standing moving. All the world is on its feet 
and don't know where to go. [Miriam bursts 
into tears ^ There now! [Looking at his watch.] 
Oh, my soul, it's after six! I'll write the note to 
the Pear-Faced-One. [Takes out his note-book.] 
Pair-Faced — dual personality — pair of faces — 
should prefer pair of aces. [Starts writing.] 

Miriam [brokenly]. ^pp/e-Fsictd-One. 

Billy [writing]. Know all men by these pre- 
sents [gesturing to the broken chairs, etc.] that I 
hereby do give, present, and make over — 

246 



STANDING MOVING 

Miriam We've got to carry all these other 
things with us. 

Billy. — all my possessions left in this house 
to — what's his name? 

Miriam. I don't know. 

Billy. Well, Pear-Faced-One will do. [Con- 
tinuing.] To the Pear- faced — 

Miriam. Apple-¥ dic^d — 

Billy. ^^/)/^-Faced-One. Sign it. [Miriam 
signs.\ Leave it on the piano. Most obvious. 
They'll run into the piano first. Come on. [He 
picks up the suit-case in one hand^ dress-boxes in 
the other. She slides the bronze statue under his 
arm and the glass vase under the other arm and 
hangs the Chinese lantern from his neck. She picks 
up the box tied with white ribbon^ photographs^ 
handbags grip^ lampshade^ etc. He ejaculates 
"Good Lord!" **0h, my soul!" "My word!" 
and finally "Hell!" as she loads him up. He drops 
the suit-case as he starts toward the hall to open 
the front door^ in imminent danger of dropping 
the bronze ornament and vase.] 

Miriam. Oh, look out! 

Billy. I don't want to look out — 'fraid I'll 
meet that damned skunk! 

Miriam [bursting into tears again]. Dear 
George ! 

[They squeeze out. The old clock on the mantel- 
piece begins to strike. Billy gives it one look, 
snaps off the light, and slams the front door 
behind them with a loud bang. In a few 
minuteSy as soon as they can manage to change 

247 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

their clothes and make-up somewhat^ these two 
return as the other couple. While they are out 
the old clock goes on striking slowly and 
methodically up to twenty-three^ or as long as 
necessary. The new couple open the front door 
into the hall and come stumbling into the 
room in the dark.] 

Bertha. They might at least have left the 
light turned on so we could see our way, but I 
suppose we'll have to pay the next bill, so it's as 
well they didn't. Not that they'd ever inten- 
tionally do anything to save us money. 

George. I ought to know where the light is, 
but I can't remember. 

Bertha. Oh, probably you turned it off many 
a time to spoon in the dark. 

George [sighing]. No, she never gave me the 
chance. 

Bertha. Oh, my toe! I've run into something! 

George. I'll have to strike a match to find 
the light. 

Bertha. Oh, my toe! 

George [lights a match]. Ah, here it is. [Turns 
on the light.] 

Bertha [surveying the room]. Those outrageous 
people! Why, they've left the house crammed 
full of their old broken-down furniture! That's 
what I ran into. [Pointing to the piano.] Oh, my 
toe, how it hurts! [Standing miserably on one 
foot.] That horrible ugly thing! 

George. It's really a lovely old piece. 

248 



STANDING MOVING 



Bertha. Oh, I suppose she played on it and 
sang love songs to you. 

George [sentimentally]. It was her mother's. 

Bertha. Looks as if it had been played on 
by some old witch. 

George [mildly]. Her mother was very beau- 
tiful. 

Bertha. Oh, doubtless you thought all the 
family were beautiful. There are some specimens 
of them. Do you call those beautiful? [Pointing 
to the portraits.] Ghastly old wretches! I hate 
people who flaunt their family portraits. 

George. People who haven't family por- 
traits always do hate those who have. 

Bertha. George! Is that a dig at me? 

George. Well, I thought you said you wanted 
to buy some to go in the new old house. 

Bertha. Well, if I did I wouldn't have these 
— I'd get good-looking ones. 

George. Oh, sure! If you're going to buy 
ancestors, buy good-looking ones by all means. 

Bertha. You are getting positively sarcastic. 
I don't know what to make of you. It's a new 
turn for you. 

George. Well, never mind. Some worms just 
turn round and round and don't do themselves 
any good. 

Bertha. I don't know what you mean. If 
you are comparing yourself to a worm, it's dis- 
gusting. I dislike people who depreciate them- 
selves constantly. It's a form of egotism. 

George. I suppose it is. I find I have a great 

249 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

many faults I never dreamed of before. Shall 
we make our beds here? 

Bertha. Here? I should say not. Surely 
there are some rooms in this house that are not 
all cluttered up. I couldn't sleep with all those 
things staring at me. Nightmares! [Looking at 
the portraits.] 

George. The sins of the fathers shall be 
visited upon the children. 

Bertha. George! You don't seem to realise 
the enormity of the situation. Didn't you have 
them sign that paper I told you to fix up, making 
them promise they'd have everything out? 

George. Yes, he signed it. 

Bertha. Then we can sue them. You must 
sue them. You'll have to bring suit right away. 

George. All right — all right. I'll sue them. 
But let's not bring suit tonight. I'm dead tired. 
Let's go to bed before we bring suit. 

Bertha. I can't understand you — taking 
everything so calmly. 

George. Well, somebody's got to take things 
calmly. 

Bertha. But you don't have to be absolutely 
sheepish. You just lie down and let them walk 
all over you — let them plague you and torment 
you. 

George. I guess it's just natural for a sheep 
to be wooled. 

Bertha. Oh, do have the spirit of a man, not 
a sheep! Do buck up! 

George. But — if I'm a sheep and not a buck? 

Bertha. Oh, do brace up — do be a man! 

250 



STANDING MOVING 

Don't let people trample on you and cheat you. 
Assert yourself. A man ought to take his place 
in the world and — 

George [murmurmg]. If you are going to 
preach a sermon! [Sits down on the edge of one 
of the broken rocking-chairs. It gives way with him 
and he falls to the floor and remains sitting there \ 
Always like to sit down when I'm moving. 

Bertha. — and defy everybody. 

George [mildly^ from the floor]. Of course. 
I do. ' 

Bertha. And assert yourself. I would if I 
were a man. It's really a pity I am not the man. 
It's a pity I didn't marry you. 

George. You did, my dear. 

Bertha. Now these people have cheated us. 
We are paying more for the place than it is 
worth. 

George. No, I would hardly say that. 

Bertha. Anything we paid would be more 
than it is worth. 

George. Well, strictly speaking, we aren't 
paying for it. It's the building association that's 
paying. Building associations believe in the 
home. They own most of them. 

Bertha. George, don't be so silly. The fact 
is, here we have their old ramshackle house on 
our hands — 

George. Before, you said it would be a home 
over our heads, now you say it's on our hands. 

Bertha. — and we've got to decide things to 
do. I wish we were well out of it. [George reaches 
up and removes his haty which he has hung on a 

251 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

chair^ and puts it on again,] We were idiots to 
say we'd take it. 

George. But you said it was so picturesque 
and it would be such fun to live in the slums. I 
guess distance lends enchantment to slums. 

Bertha. That was when I was living cooped 
up in one room. 

George. Awfully cozy little room. 

Bertha. Oh, of course you liked it — you 
didn't have to stay in it all day. And no furnace 
for you to look after. 

George. There's no furnace here. 

Bertha. No furnace.^ 

George. No, only innumerable fires. 

Bertha. And you're so lazy you'd never at- 
tend to them and they'll all go out, and I'll just 
have to live in one room again. But that isn't 
the point now. The point is, what are we going 
to do with all these things? 

George. Seems more like a mess than a 
point, don't it? 

Bertha. I wonder if the whole house is 
cluttered. Give me a match. [He hands her a 
box of matches and she starts out toward the kitchen^ 
ejaculating: "Oh, my toe!" She is gone a jew mo- 
ments, George looks about helplessly^ sees the an- 
cestors^ takes ojf his hat and bows to them most 
elaborately. Bertha re-enters \ 

Bertha. The kitchen is piled with junk! 
Awful, outrageous truck! Sewing-machines, bot- 
tles, broken tables, broken china, old magazines, 
bottles. I couldn't get through to the range or 

252 



STANDING MOVING 

the sink. It's a blessing we didn't plan to get 
breakfast here. 

George [resignedly]. Well, it's an old house, 
you know. It must have been very full of stuff. 
And you wanted to buy it, you know. You said 
you were just crazy for an old house. 

Bertha. That's right! Blame it all on me! 
Blame me for everything! 

George. Oh, no, my dear, I ain't blaming 
you — I — 

Bertha. Yes, you are. You lay the blame 
for everything on me. You'll be telling every- 
body I made you buy it. 

George [elaborately]. Certainly not, my dear. 
It was all my fault. I am entirely to blame. 
Everybody knows I am so restless. Couldn't 
stay and be content in the little room. 

Bertha. Oh, content, content! You're al- 
ways content. You'd be content to live in a dog- 
house or a chicken-coop. If all people were like 
you there would be no change, no movement, 
no progress — the world wouldn't move. 

George. Well, I guess the world ain't like 
me — 

Bertha. Don't be ungrammatical ! 

George. Thank you, my dear — I meant to 
say the world is apparently unlike me, for it's all 
moving. I met six vans this afternoon. Most of 
'em have to move and no place to move to. As 
for me, I never feel the need of change except 
when I have to pay my car-fare. [Grinning 
sheepishly.] 

Bertha. How can you be so trivial? 

^S3 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

George. Well, change is a trifling matter, 
ain't — is it not? 

Bertha. How can you joke? 

George. I always believe in putting the best 
joke foremost. Now, honest, Bertha, this change 
is a great joke on us, ain't it? 

Bertha. Don't you dare say "ain't" again! 

George. I won't. 

Bertha. And, really, it's unsympathetic in 
you to try to be funny when you see I am in such 
distress. 

George. All right, I'll be in distress, too. 
Don't vou think it would be sensible for us to 
dis-dress and go to bed? 

Bertha. If you keep up that foolishness TU 
never forgive you. 

George. I guess you never will anyhow. 
[Sighing heavily.] 

Bertha. We'll have to make some sort of 
bed. It is an outrage for those people to turn 
us out of our room. I never dreamed that we 
couldn't stay there tonight and come here after 
our bed was put up tomorrow. 

George. Well, they got the room, you know. 

Bertha. They never would have got it if 
you hadn't told them about it. 

George. The poor souls hadn't anywhere to 

Bertha. You are terribly sympathetic with 
them. 

George. It's a funny thing that the people 
who sold us this house should be taking our 
room at the boarding-house. 

254 



STANDING MOVING 

Bertha. Are'nt you ever going to get up? 

George. Sure, I am. [He gets up slowly and 
stands looking at her.] 

Bertha. Well, aren't you going to do any- 
thing about this awful mess.^ 

George. Sure, my dear. We'll make the bed 
on top of the piano. 

Bertha. Nonsense, we'll make it on the 
floor. 

George. Of course, the floor is handier, but — 

Bertha. But what? 

George. I hate to suggest it, but in an old 
house like this there are apt to be — you know — 
mice and roaches and things. 

Bertha. Oh, my goodness, I suppose there 
are! But I never can climb on top of the piano. 

George. I'll lift you up. 

Bertha. And I'd be sure to fall off in the 
night. 

George. I could tie you on. Or we could tie 
ourselves together. Blessed be the tie that binds. 

Bertha. You're joking again. 

George. No, ma'am, I'll never make another 
joke, I only want to make a bed. I don't want 
to joke, I want to lie — down and sleep. 

Bertha. Besides, if we fell off together and 
were killed, it would seem like a suicide pact. 

George. Pact suicide in a packed house. I 
couldn't help that, honest! It was accidental — 
fell off, you know, like us — pat! 

Bertha [walking to the piano]. My toe hurts 
from the — 

George [grinning benignly], //wpact! 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Bertha. — with that awful thing. What is 
this? 

George. As they say in the movies. 

Bertha. I have found a note. [Reads.] 
"Know all men by these presents that I do 
hereby give, present, and make over all my pos- 
sessions left in this house to the Apple-Faced-One. 
''Miriam Oliver, 
"William OHver, her husband." 
Why, this reads like a legal document, though 
it's written in pencil. 

George. It's a joke. 

Bertha. But it reads Hke a legal document. 

George. It's probably meant to be. Legal 
documents are always jokes — practical jokes. 

Bertha. But what does it mean? 

George. I hate to think. 

Bertha [reading the paper again]. Why it 
must mean — it does mean that she is giving all 
this awful truck to — the Apple-Faced-One — that 
means you. 

George. I guess it does. Funny, ain't it? — 
I mean it's funny. 

Bertha. No, it's not funny at all. It's insult- 
ing. And it's outrageous. We won't accept their 
magnificent gift. 

George. Well, I don't know how we are going 
to get out of it. Gifts are a good deal like the 
rain that falleth on the just and on the unjust, 
and you canst not tell whither they cometh nor 
whence they goeth. 

Bertha. We will not accept their gift. We 
will bring suit. 

256 



STANDING MOVING 

George. What! Bring another suit again so 
soon after getting the first one settled? 

Bertha. Don't you object to being called the 
Apple-Faced-One by your old sweetheart? 

George. I guess I don't like it, but what's 
the use of objecting? "It don't do a rabbit a 
bit of good to have a mean disposition," as the 
old saying is. Anyhow, I don't believe she 
meant it. 

Bertha. Oh, I suppose you think she's still 
in love with you. 

George. No, I guess she never was. [Sighing.] 

Bertha. I believe you are still in love with 
her. I have always thought you were in love 
with her. Though what on earth you ever saw 
in her I'm sure I don't know. [The telephone 
rings.] Dear me, I wonder who could be calling 
us up here already? 

George. It's probably for the other folks. 
[He starts toward the telephone^ but she intercepts 
him and takes up the receiver^ 

Bertha. Hello! No, this is not Mrs. Oliver. 
This is Mrs. Kelly, the new owner. — No, I don't 
know where Mrs. Oliver is. — What do you want? 
■^It's off, you say, what's off? — Well, I should 
like to know why } — The deal is off .^ — Why ? I am 
afraid I do not understand. — That is very strange. 
Very strange, indeed. I should like to know what 
right they had to go ahead and sell a place if 
they couldn't sell it. — This is most extraordinary. 
[In a tone of the most frigid and official politeness \ 
Will you kindly hold the line a moment till I 

17 257 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

tell my husband? [Turning to George.] He says 
it's all off, the deal is off — he says — 

George. Who says? 

Bertha. The real estate man. He says it 
isn't a real sale. It's all off. They haven't sold 
the place and we haven't bought it. 

George. That seems a little exaggerated. 
But why? 

Bertha. The title isn't clear. There's an 
uncle somebody has a life interest, and he's just 
sent word that he won't sign the papers. 

George. Fine! Then we can go back to the 
cozy little room! 

Bertha. But it is an outrage! To be turned 
out of our house and home! 

George. You just said you wanted to get rid 
of it. 

Bertha. Nothing of the sort. We bought it, 
therefore it is ours. 

George. Oh, I made a mistake. Sorry. 
Thought you'd be relieved. 

Bertha. Relieved to have no roof over my 
head? Well, you are smart! He's talking again. 
[Speaking into the telephone.] What is it? — Yes, 
I've told my husband. He's absolutely amazed. 
[George throws up his head and twists his mouth to 
one side.] He says it is a perfect outrage. He 
says he will sue those people. 

George. The third law-suit. 

Bertha. Yes, I understand perfectly. The 
deal is off. And if we cannot have this place we 
will not stay in it another minute. We will not 
stay here even tonight after such treatment. We 

258 



STANDING MOVING 

will immediately go back to our room in the 
boarding-house, and you can telephone those 
people at once — they are in our room — that they 
will have to get out, for we are comir^ back. — 
Yes, you may look for another house for us. But 
we will not promise to take it, after the way you 
have deceived us. My husband is furiously en- 
raged, and you will find him very hard and stiff 
to deal with. He's going to bring suit at once. — 
I don't know about buying again. We may have 
other plans. Goodbye. [She hangs up the re- 
ceiver.] He says she has an uncle Jim who has a 
life interest in the place. He's very rich and she's 
his heir, and they never dreamed he wouldn't 
sign, but it seems he wants her to keep the place, 
so he won't give his consent to the sale, and it's 
all off for good. That miserable real estate man 
— I don't know but what we ought to sue him, 
too. 

George. Law-suit number four. 

Bertha. He wants to sell us another house, 
but I have a different plan. We're going to build 
a house. 

George. Oh, Lord! 

Bertha. Now don't take it that way. You'll 
enjoy it. You're going to turn carpenter and 
build cupboard shelves and put up screen doors 
and stain floors and learn to be so handy with 
tools. It will be fun. 

George. I never could drive a nail without 
smashing my thumb. 

Bertha. Oh, I am so cold in this barn. It 
will be nice to get back to a steam-heated room. 

259 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

George. Suits me. 

Bertha. Come, we must go. [Buttons her 
coat. He picks up the two suit-cases and grip. 
She gathers up the blankets and other things.] 
I hope they freeze when they get back to this. 
They'll be here in a few minutes. You go ahead 
and I'll turn out the light. I hope she runs into 
the piano. [She snaps off the light.] George, we're 
going to have steam heat in our new bungalow. 

[They go out, and the stage is dark long enough 
for them to change their clothes and make up 
and return as the first couple. While they are 
gone the cuckoo clock in the hall strikes twelve. 
The door is heard opening and the first couple 
enters. Billy snaps on the light. His face is 
dark with ferocious gloom, Miriam's is set 
with patient resignation. Billy takes off his 
hat, looks around for a place to hang it, and 
finally deposits it 072 the mantelpiece, removes 
his muffler, folding it carefully and placing it 
on top of the hat. He takes off his overcoat 
and lays it on top of the piano. Miriam 
meanwhile watches him in silent perturbation^ 

Miriam. I don't want to reproach you, but 
you are so melancholy. [Billy gives her a fiery, 
scorching look.] It is so depressing to have you 
this way. You haven't said a word all the way 
home. 

Billy. Home! [through his teeth, with a wither- 
ing glance about the room.] 

Miriam. You didn't like the room at the board- 
ing-house, so I thought you might be glad to get 

260 



STANDING MOVING 

back home. You said the room there was Hke 
Hving in a chicken-coop, so I thought — 

Billy. Room? Not even as big as a chicken- 
coop! More Hke hving in a shredded-wheat 
carton, hearing people talk all the time on one 
side of the wall and water running in the bath- 
room all the time on the other side. It's positively 
indecent the way people live nowadays, cooped 
up in little compartments like so many boxes of 
eggs on a grocery shelf. It's indecent, outrageous, 
horrible ! 

Miriam. Oh, go right on! Tm so glad you've 
broken your silence at last. 

Billy. Modern life is commercialized discom- 
fort. Street-cars are packed like sardine boxes, 
people climb round and round on top of each 
other in stores and on the street like bees in a 
hive, and when they go home at night they're 
jammed away in so many little compartments 
like so many cases of compressed chicken on a 
grocery shelf. 

Miriam. Oh, please go right on, dear. I 
don't mind it so much when you rant and rave, 
but it is frightful when you preserve that awful 
silence. 

Billy. Rant and rave? Thank you! I am 
not ranting and raving in the least. I am abso- 
lutely self-possessed. I am only voicing in a 
perfectly cool and collected manner certain well- 
known, but unacknowledged sociological facts. 
The way people live on top of each other is not 
only frightful socially and morally, but it is de- 
generating biologically and it is unhygienic. 

261 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

Miriam. Well, it's nice to get back home, 
then, isn't it? Where we have plenty of room 
and air. 

Billy. Room and air? I should say so! 
Has a man got to choose between a barn and a 
pepper-box to live in? 

Miriam. I felt so hopeful that if you really 
had the experience of moving — because one always 
moves into something worse — that you would be 
better contented at home again. 

Billy. Home? Bah! I tell you if we've got 
to live here, and your Uncle Jim doesn't let us 
sell this place, he's got to come across and make 
it decent. 

Miriam. I feel sure he will, dear. 

Billy. I feel sure he won't. He's probably as 
stingy as the rest of the family. 

Miriam. Billy! How can you? I don't want 
to reproach you, but you are so hard on my 
relatives. 

Billy. Well, if he hadn't interfered — and 
Lord knows why he did, for it isn't his and he 
never will get anything out of it — but if he hadn't 
interfered, we'd be well rid of it by now. 

Miriam [irrelevantly]. I guess we'll have to 
sleep on top of the piano. 

Billy. Might make it soft with a mattress of 
love-letters. [Pointing to the paper-boxes.] 

Miriam. Oh, here is the note to the Apple- 
Faced-One. I'm so glad he didn't get hold of it 
— then he'd have all those things. 

Billy. You don't mean to say you're going 
to keep all this stuff now? 

262 



STANDING MOVING 



Miriam. Everything comes in handy if you 
keep it long enough. I'm sorry I gave him the 
wash-boiler and the step-ladder and the coal- 
shovel and the carpet-sweeper and the mop and 
the dust-pan and the iron skillet and the— 

Billy. Fm not— all those ancient implements 
—now we can get something new— you never 
would have otherwise. 

Miriam. I wonder if they— the new owners— 
really were here. It must have seemed queer to 
George to be here with his wife. 

George. I daresay. Confound him! Got the 
house at last but not the same girl. Must seem 
queer to you, too. Well, maybe you'd like to 
trade husbands even yet. 

Miriam. Billy, I don't want to reproach you, 
but I must say I don't think George would ever 
have talked to me the way you do. 

Billy. Oh, Lord, no! He wouldn't. Good- 
natured cuss and all that. And I suppose you 
mean to infer that I'm a beast. Hum! 
Miriam. George is so kind-hearted. 
Billy. Maybe you want to get rid of me, 
maybe you want to get a divorce. Well, go 
ahead! I'm done. Having that dunderheaded 
fool held up to me as a paragon and model of all 
that a husband ought to be. It's too much for 
any man to stand. I'm done. I'm through. 

Miriam. Oh, Billy! [Her voice high-pitched 
up in her nose and breaking.] 

Billy. Confounded ass preferred to me! 
[Miriam breaks into wild weeping.] It's more than 

263 



THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 

a self-respecting man can bear. [Miriam weeps 
loudly.] Damned idiot preferred to me. 

Miriam. Oh! 

Billy [stalking about the room]. Too much to 
stand! Standing moving. Standing everything. 
[Continues to stalk about y glancing at her as she 
sobs wildly.] Oh, stop that crying! [Miriam wails 
more loudly.] What's the use of weeping? [Miriam 
wails more loudly at each word from him.] I wish 
you wouldn't cry. 

Miriam. Oh! 

Billy. Oh, for the Lord's sake don't sob that 
way. 

Miriam. Oh! 

Billy. For heaven's sake stop crying. 

Miriam. How — can — I — help — it — when — 

Billy [coming to her and standing in front of 
her]. You know I can't stand to see you cry. 

Miriam [puts her head on his shoulder]. Well — 
then — why do — you — 

Billy. Well, then, I didn't mean to. I — well, 
I'm sorry. [Puts his arms round her. They are 
standing by the piano in the center of the room. 
He continues to pet and fondle her.] 

Miriam. Don't you know I never cared about 
anybody but you? 

Billy. And you don't think, then, that he's 
a much nicer chap than me? 

Miriam. Nobody is nicer than you. Nobody 
could be so charming and lovely and dear. 

Billy, [lifting her to the top of the piano]. I 
speak without thinking. I've got such an infernal 
bad temper. 

264 



STANDING MOVING 

Miriam. Nothing of the sort. I won't let 
you mahgn yourself that way. You have the 
sweetest disposition of any man I ever knew. 

Billy. Do you really think so? 

Miriam. Do I.^ [Smiling sweetly.] 77/ say so! 

Billy. Standing moving is bad enough, but 
standing my wife's tears is more than I can 
stand. [Jumps up on the piano beside her and 
puts his arm round her.] 

Miriam. Darling, I don't care what you say 
about the family and the old house. If you just 
love me. 

Billy. If you'll only promise not to cry, I'll 
promise never to move from this spot while I 
live. [Kicking his foot against the old piano.] 

[// loud pounding is heard in the rear.] 

Miriam. Oh dear, that must be the Apple- 
Faced-One and the old darky and the mule! 

[Curtain.] 



265 



SHORT PLAYS 

By MARY MacMILLAN 



To fill a long-felt want. All have been successfully pre- 
sented. Suitable for Women's Clubs, Girls' Schools, etc. 
While elaborate enough for big presentation, they may be 
given very simply. 

This volume contains ten Plays: 

The Shadowed Star has six women, one boy; may all be taken 
by women. Time, present. Scene, in a tenement Christmas 
Eve. One act, 45 minutes. 

The Ring. Costume play. Time, days of Shakespeare. Three 
women, seven men. Scene, interior. One act, 45 minutes. 

The Rose. One woman, two men. Time, Elizabethan. Scene, 
castle interior. One act, 30 minutes. Song introduced. 

Luck. Four short acts. Time, present. Interior scene. 
Seven women, six men. Comedy. 

Enire' Acte. Costume play. Time, present. Scene, interior. 
Two women, one man. Contains a song. One act. 

A Woman s a Woman for A' Thai. Time, present. Interior 
scene. One act, 45 minutes. Three women, two men. Comedy. 

A Fan and Two Candlesticks. Costume play, Colonial times. 
Scene, interior. Two men, one woman. One act, 20 to 30 
minutes. Written in rhymed couplets. 

A Modern Masque. Time, present. Scene, outdoors. Fan- 
tastic, written in prose and verse. Costume play in one act, 
30 minutes or more. Four women, three men. 

The Futurists. One-act farce, of the first woman's club of the 
early eighties. Interior. Forty- five minutes, Eight women. 

The Gate of Wishes. One-act fantasy. Outdoors. Half hour. 
One girl, one man. Singing voices of fairies. 

Handsomely bound and uniform with S. ^ K. Dramatic Series. 
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MORE SHORT PLAYS 

By MARY MacMILLAN 

Plays that act well may read well. Miss MacMillan's 
Plays are good reading. Nor is literary excellence a detriment 
to dramatic performance. 

This volume contains eight Plays: 

His Second Girl. One-act comedy, just before the Civil War. 
Interior, 45 minutes. Three women, three men. 

At the Church Door. Fantastic farce, one act, 20 to 30 minutes. 
Interior. Present. Two women, two men. 

Honey. Four short acts. Present, in the southern mountains. 
Same interior cabin scene throughout. Three women, one 
man, two girls. 

The Dress Rehearsal of Hamlet. One-act costume farce. 
Present. Interior. Forty-five minutes. Ten women taking 
men's parts. 

The Pioneers. Five very short acts. 1791 in Middle- West. 
Interior. Four men, five women, five children, five Indians. 

In Mendelesia, Part I. Costume play. Middle Ages. Interior. 
Thirty minutes or more. Four women, one man-servant. 

In Mendelesiay Part II. Modern realism of same plot. One 
act. Present. Interior. Thirty minutes. Four women, one 
maid-servant. 

The Dryad. Fantasy in free verse, one act. Thirty minutes. 
Outdoors. Two women, one man. Present. 

These plays, as well as SHORT PLAYS, have been pre- 
sented by clubs and schools in Boston, New York, Buflfalo, 
Detroit, Cleveland, New Orleans, San Francisco, etc., and by 
the Portmanteau Theatre, the Chicago Art Institute Theatre, 
the Denver Little Art Theatre, at Carmel-by-the-Sea in 
California, etc. 

Handsomely bound and uniform with S. & K. Dramatic Series. 
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Stewart Kidd Dramatic Anthologies 

Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays 

Edited by 
FRANK SHAY and PIERRE LOVING 

THIS volume contains FIFTY REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS 
of the MODERN THEATER, chosen from the dramatic works of con- 
temporary writers all over the world and is the second volume in the 
Stewart Kidd Dramatic Anthologies, the first being European Theories of the 
Drama, by Barrett H. Clark, which has been so enthusiastically received. 

The editors have scrupulously sifted countless plays and have selected the 
best available in English. One-half the plays have never before been pub- 
lished in book form; thirty-one are no longer available in any other edition. 
The work satisfies a long-felt want for a handy collection of the choicest 
plays produced by the art theaters all over the world. It is a complete reper- 
tory for a little theater, a volume for the study of the modern drama, a rep- 
resentative collection of the world's best short plays. 

CONTENTS 



AUSTRIA 

Schnitzler (Arthur) — Literature 
BELGIUM 

Maeterlinck (Maurice) — The Intruder 
BOLIVIA 

More (Federico) — Interlude 
DENMARK 

Wied (Gustave) — Autumn Fires 
FRANCE 

Ancey (George) — M. Lamblin 

Porto- Riche (Georges) — Francoise's Luck 
GERMANY 

Ettinger (Karl) — Altruism 

von Hofmannsthal (Hugo) — Madonna Dia- 
nora 

Wedekind (Frank)— The Tenor 
GREAT BRITAIN 

Bennett (Arnold) — A Good Woman 

Calderon (George) — The Little Stone House 

Cannan (Gilbert) — Mary's Wedding 

Dowson (Ernest) — The Pierrot of the Min- 
ute. 

Ellis (Mrs. Havelock) — The Subjection 
of Kezia 

Hankin (St. John) — ^The Constant Lover 
INDIA 

Mukerji (Dhan Gopal) — The Judgment of 
Indra 
IRELAND 

Gregory (Lady) — The Workhouse Ward 
HOLLAND 

Speenhoff (J. H.) — Louise 
HUNGARY 

Biro (Lajos) — The Grandmother 
ITALY 

Giocosa (Giuseppe) — The Rights of the Soul 
RUSSIA 

Andreyev (Leonid) — Love of One's Neigh- 
bor 

Tchekofif (Anton) — The Boor 



SPAIN 

Benevente (Jacinto) — His Widow's Hus- 
band 
Quinteros (Serafina and Joaquin Alverez) 
— A Sunny Morning 

SWEDEN 

Strindberg (August) — The Creditor 

UNITED STATES 

Beach (Lewis) — Brothers 
Cowan (Sada) — In the Morgue 
Crocker (Bosworth) — The Baby Carriage 
Cronyn (George W.) — A Death in Fever 

Flat 
Davies (Mary Carolyn) — The Slave with 

Two Faces 
Day (Frederick L.)— The Slump 
Planner (Hildegard) — Mansions 
Glaspell (Susan)— Trifles 
Gerstenberg (Alice)— The Pot Boiler 
Helburn (Theresa) — Enter the Hero 
Hudson (Holland)— The Shepherd in the 

Distance 
Kemp (Harry) — Boccaccio's Untold Tale 
Langner (Lawrence) — Another Way Out 
MacMillan (Mary) — The Shadowed Star 
Millay (Edna St. Vincent) — Aria da Capo 
Moeller (Philip) — Helena's Husband 
O'Neill (Eugene)— He 
Stevens (Thomas Wood) — The Nursery 

Maid of Heaven 
Stevens (Wallace) — Three Travelers Watch 

a Sunrise 
Tompkins (Frank G.) — Sham 
Walker (Stuart) — The Medicine Show 
Wellman (Rita)— For All Time 
Wilde (Percival)— The Finger of God 

YIDDISH 

Ash (Sholom) — Night 

Pinski (David) — Forgotten Souls 



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Stewart Kidd Dramatic Anthologies 

Contemporary One-Act plays of iqh 

american 

Edited by Frank Shay 

THIS volume represents a careful and intelligent selection of 
the best One-act Plays written by Americans and produced 
by the Little Theatres in America during the season of 1921. 
Tiiey are representative of the best work of writers in this field 
and show the high level to which the art theatre has risen in 
America. 

The editor has brought to his task a love of the theatre and 
a knowledge of what is best through long association with the 
leading producing groups. 

The volume contains the repertoires of the leading Little 
Theatres, together with bibliographies of published plays and 
books on the theatre issued since January, 1920, 

Aside from its individual importance, the volume, together 
with Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, will make up the 
most important collection of short plays published. 

In the Book are 
the following Plays by the following Authors 

Mirage George M. P. Baird 

Napoleon's Barber Arthur Caesar 

Goat Alley Ernest Howard Culbertson 

Sweet and Twenty Floyd Dell 

Tickless Time Susan Glaspell and George Cram Cook 

The Hero of Santa Maria .... Kenneth Sawyer Goodman and 

Ben Hecht 

All Gummed Up Harry Wagstaff Gribble 

Thompsons Luck Harry Greenwood Grover 

Fata Deorum Carl W. Guske 

Pearl of Dawn Holland Hudson 

Finders-Keepers George Kelly 

Solomon's Song Harry Kemp 

Matinata Lawrence Langner 

The Conflict Clarice Vallette McCauley 

Two Slatterns and a King Edna St. Vincent Millay 

Thursday Evening Christopher Morley 

The Dreamy Kid Eugene O'Neill 

Forbidden Fruit George J . Smith 

Jezebel Dorothy Stockbridge 

Sir David Wears a Crown Stuart Walker 

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Stewart Kidd Plays 

MASTERPIECES 

OF MODERN SPANISH 

DRAMA 

EDITED, WITH A PREFACE, BY 

BARRETT H. CLARK 



"A volume that will prove of unusual interest to lovers of the 
theatre. "—Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 

The collection of plays in this volume has a distinct value, 
representing, as it does, three varied aspects of the dramatic 
genius of Spain — Echegaray, Galdos and Guimera, the Catalon- 
ian Nationalist. 

Two of the plays, the "Duchess of San Quentin"and "Daniela," 
have never before been translated. 

Mr. Clark, the editor, who is well-known to all lovers and 
students of the drama, gives, in his prefaces, a concise and illumi- 
nating survey of the drama in Spain, both old and new. 

Each play is preceded by a biographical sketch and a complete 
chronological list of the dramatist's works. 

THE GREAT GALEOTO, a tragedy, by Jose Echegaray, 
translated by Eleanor Bontecou (presented to the American public 
by Wm. Faversham, under the title "The World and his Wife") 

"an instance of Echegaray's melodramatic and essentially 

Spanish genius." 

DANIELA, a tragic drama, by Angel Guimera, translated by 
John Garrett Underbill. "Daniela comes to us with all the force 
of a new sensation, ... .by virtue of the profound and tragic 
poetry of its theme. (It) is of the great order." — The Dial. 

THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN. a comedy, by 
Benito Perez-Galdos, translated by Philip M. Hayden. "Galdos 
has done a rare bit of character portrayal."— Cleveland Plain 
Dealer. 

"All the plays are essentially racial and as such will deeply 
interest the student of European Drama." — Argonaut. 

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Stewart Kidd Dramatic Anthologies 

European Theories of the Drama 

By BARRETT H. CLARK 

An Anthology of Dramatic Theory and Criticism from Aristotle to the present day 
in a series of selected texts, with Commentaries, Biographies and Bibliographies 

A book of paramount importance. This monumental 
anthology assembles for the first time the epoch-making 
theories and criticisms of the drama from the beginnings in 
Greece to the present, and each excerpt is chosen with refer- 
ence to its effect on subsequent dramatic writing. The texts 
alone are immensely valuable, and the comments constitute a 
history of dramatic criticism. 

It is the most important body of doctrine on the drama to 
be obtained, appeals to all who are interested in the theatre, 
and is indispensable to students. 

The introduction to each section of the book is followed 
by an exhaustive bibliography. Each writer whose work is 
represented is made the subject of a brief biography. The 
entire volume is rendered doubly valuable by the index, which 
is worked out in great detail. 

Contributors to the Success of this Volume: 



Aristotle 


Moliere 


Goethe 


Horace 


Racine 


Schlegel 


Donatus 


Boileau 


Hebbel 


Dante 


Saint-Evremont 


Wagner 


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Dryden 


Freytag 


Minturno 


Milton 


Hugo 


Scaliger 


Rymer 


Dumas fils 


SebiUet 


Congreve 


Sarcey 


De la Taille 


Farquhar 


Zola 


Cervantes 


Addison 


Brunetiere 


Lope de Vega 


Johnson 


Maeterlinck 


Tirso de Molina 


Goldsmith 


Coleridge 


Sidney 


Goldoni 


Lamb 


Jonson 


Lessing 


Hazlitt 


Ogier 


Voltaire 


Pinero 


Chapelain 


Diderot 


Jones 


Abbe d'Aubignac 


Beaumarchais 


Shaw 


Corneille 


Schiller 


Archer 


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Four Plays of the Free Theater . . Barrett H. Clark 2.50 
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Sweet and Twenty Floyd Dell .50 

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